


Only One Man

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Canon Era, Consent Issues, Doppelganger, Explicit Sexual Content, Historical Inaccuracy, Infidelity, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Magic, Mutual Pining, Rank Disparity, pre-Eliza
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-21 14:19:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 29,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9552575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: When Hamilton discovers a magical artifact abandoned by the British, he's confident he can complete the unfinished ritual. Against his better judgment, Washington assents. If they're going to win this war, they need every advantage they can get. But the consequences are more personal than either man expects.Or: the one where Washington's magic doppelgänger fucks things up.





	1. Chapter 1

The thing about magic is, it isn't credible.

One truth Hamilton has observed too many times to count: men of standing would rather roll their eyes and dismiss the notion, than consider even the _possibility_ that there might be scientific merit to studying the occult.

Hamilton's own studies have been limited to the scarce books he's managed to get his hands on. Even King's College refuses to stock the most basic materials on the subject. "Beneath our illustrious and respected standing as an institution," the head librarian announces, managing to look both disgusted and offended that Hamilton has even made the request.

Hamilton argues—it's what he does best—but there's no swaying the man. Which means Hamilton has to find what he needs elsewhere. Calling in favors from new friends, borrowing from local eccentrics, pretending to patrons and professors that this is only a literary curiosity, separate from his serious studies. Pretending the subject _doesn't_ fascinate him with the same tangible vigor of his interest in economics, philosophy, history.

Magic may be less practical, but that doesn't make it any less _real_. It's every bit as worthy of study as the other subjects he touches on while he tries to work out the shape of his own future.

When chaotic revolution gives way to a coordinated war effort, Hamilton is ready to swear himself to a greater cause. He's been waiting his whole life for this, and he doesn't plan to squander what providence has laid before him. He'll forge his own path—fight his way to something better or die trying. He'll _make something_ out of a life that should have ended before his thirteenth birthday, and he'll do it as a soldier.

He's sure of his course. And he remains sure until George Washington looks him straight in the eye and says, "I need someone like you to lighten the load."

In that moment Hamilton falters. He looks at his own plans and weighs them against the strange stern plea in the general's eyes. He takes in the grim lines of Washington's face, the stiff set of broad shoulders, and recognizes that this is one mountain he will yield before. He'll set his own aspirations aside and be what _Washington_ needs, or he'll die trying. And every day he will do his best to ignore the voice in his head that's still desperate to fight this war on his own terms.

There are practical reasons to accept Washington's offer: the urgency of the war; the potential for a well placed ally if they win; the chance to showcase his abilities under the direct command of the man in charge.

None of these are the reason Hamilton agrees.

He always _has_ let his heart make the most important decisions.

At least there are advantages. He discovers them quickly as he settles into his new role. Under Washington he can continue his self-directed studies. He's in a position to requisition books on any topic. As long as he keeps up with the endless tasks required of his position, he can devote every remaining hour to the betterment of his mind. Sleep is a weakness he avoids until either exhaustion or his closest friends force him to rest. John Laurens in particular is a hovering and perpetual presence—exasperated and protective—too sincere to ignore.

"Do you want Washington to see you like this?" Laurens asks, when stubbornness has kept Hamilton upright into the gray edges near collapse. "What will the general think if he has to order you to bed?"

Even exhausted, Hamilton feels a flare of heat at his friend's careless question. Laurens means nothing by it—and it's obvious he sees nothing in Hamilton's countenance to raise questions—but Hamilton's overactive mind sketches a guilty fantasy just the same. Washington's bed instead of his own. Heady command brought to bear in the privacy of the general's room… or ordering Hamilton to silence, in the riskier confines of the tent Washington occupies when the troops venture afield.

"What has you so entranced tonight, anyway?" Laurens tugs the book from Hamilton's tired fingers. "Surely it will be just as fascinating tomorrow."

Hamilton doesn't fight him for the book. His expression is defiant as he watches Laurens flip through several pages.

"More occult nonsense?" A faint smile twitches at one corner of John's mouth. There's nothing cruel in the smirk, nothing deliberately taunting, but Hamilton's oversensitive pride pricks anyway. He knows Laurens doesn't subscribe to 'the nonsense of magic'. But Hamilton isn't going to ignore a potential source of strength simply because his best friend finds the notion laughable.

This book—an incomplete catalogue of known artifacts and their documented effects—is only the second one Hamilton has requested on the subject since joining Washington's staff. He doesn't broach this fact as a defense. He has no need to defend himself, and every right to study as he chooses.

"It isn't nonsense just because _you've_ never seen proof," Hamilton retorts, barbed temper sharpened by his lack of sleep.

"Have _you_ seen proof?" Laurens counters, warm with affection, and deliberately oblivious to the ruffling of Hamilton's ire.

"No," Hamilton admits grudgingly. "But the written accounts are too consistent to ignore the possibility." It's not _just_ a possibility. Magic is real—Hamilton's scholarship has left him no space for doubt—but he won't convince Laurens with words. He's more than once argued that for so many complete strangers to agree _so precisely_ on the minutest details can't be coincidence. There's no point repeating an argument that hasn't convinced John yet.

Abruptly Hamilton finds himself wondering, and not for the first time, what Washington knows of magic. He wonders if Washington believes where Laurens does not. Maybe, in his greater years and experience, he's witnessed proofs of his own. Mentions of magical artifacts used in wartime are sparse, but they exist, and Washington is a distinguished veteran. Has the general faced such challenges? If so, would he recognize them for what they are?

Hamilton won't ask. He can't take the chance Washington _doesn't_ believe, and might think less of him. Hamilton won't risk changing Washington's opinion of him. He won't chance Washington thinking him unreliable or superstitious when he's worked so hard to be the right hand his general needs.

It's just one more thing Washington doesn't need to know, and Hamilton guards it alongside more personal secrets. His family, his birth, his struggle to be more than his circumstances. Fears of failure, of falling into obscurity after the war. The way the world comes into sharper focus whenever his general is near.

Hamilton's fascination with magic is the least dangerous of these secrets, but it's still something Washington decidedly does not need to know.

More than once Hamilton has wondered if their enemies are using magic against them. The British have more resources than the rebel army in almost every way. It's entirely possible they have access to some ancient remnant helping them guide the outcome of the war. There _is_ something unnatural in the fierce winters Washington's troops have faced. It wouldn't surprise Hamilton to learn there have been deliberate and nefarious forces in play.

"Why do you care so much?" Laurens asks more gently. "Even if magic were real, it's no use to us."

Hamilton doesn't have an answer beyond his own insatiable need to understand everything. The study of magic won't make him a better aide or soldier. The occult can't help them win this war. Even if Hamilton possessed every scrap of knowledge he craves, knowledge isn't enough.

There _is no magic_ without the physical artifacts that carry it, and the rebel army possesses none. If they did, Hamilton would be among the very few to know. Washington keeps no secrets from him.

Hamilton scowls. Only now does he recognize the throb of a headache behind his eyes, the stiffness in his limbs, the deep wash of shadow across the table as his candle burns low.

"You're right. It doesn't matter." The concession galls him almost as much as the affectionate softening of John's expression. Hamilton neither needs not wants his friend's pity.

"Alexander…" There's a placating tone beneath the syllables.

Hamilton snatches his book back. If he were less exhausted he probably wouldn't rankle so easily, but he makes no effort to mask his irritation. He marks his page in the book with a frayed and faded length of ribbon, then closes the journal where he's been jotting notes.

"It's late." Hamilton rises from his chair, every muscle protesting the long stillness. "I'll retire to my tent." It's not _his_ tent—it's the tent shared by nearly all of Washington's aides—pitched as near to the general's quarters as space will allow. All the better to avoid waking half the camp when Washington assigns urgent tasks in the dead of night. But the bedroll waiting for Hamilton suddenly sounds more appealing than the idea of keeping his eyes open another instant.

"Goodnight then." Laurens looks pleased with himself, as though he considers this a victory. "I'll see you in the morning."

"Goodnight," Hamilton agrees sourly, and glares at the humoring smile for an extra heartbeat before snuffing the candle to darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Washington knows just how tight a line he and his army walk, always on the verge of the loss that will truly sink them. Their few victories are mere skirmishes, of far less strategic value than the troops realize. He is painfully aware that his forces are barely treading water against an enemy that should have crushed them months ago.

It's little more than chance that the war has continued this long.

Even among his most trusted officers, few see the whole picture. Few see Washington grapple with his despair. The confident and stalwart general is an image he goes to great pains to uphold, because it's a fiction his troops need. Desertion is already a problem. If he falters beneath the eyes of his men, then everything truly will be lost.

Hamilton's eyes are different—knowing and sharp—able to see straight through him.

Maybe it's because the general works so closely with this young upstart, who has made himself de facto chief of Washington's staff. Maybe it's the fact that Washington leans more and more heavily on Hamilton with every passing day. Maybe it's only Hamilton's quick and piercing intellect, reading the situation—reading _Washington_ —reading between the lines of the hundreds of pages of correspondence that Hamilton manages.

It should gall him to feel so transparent. Instead Washington finds it a relief to know Hamilton really _sees him_ , even if no one else can.

"General Washington, sir?"

Speak of the devil. Hamilton is abruptly beside him, appearing out of nowhere now that the wild heat of battle has faded. The boy's expression is familiar, ill-concealed frustration at being kept from the fighting, but he waits in silence to be acknowledged.

From his horse, Washington takes one last look across the ranks, as his men secure the town they've retaken from the British. It's little more than a village, nothing but scattered farmhouses and fields. But the townsfolk cheered the rebels in victory, emerging from their homes to heckle the captured British forces, and Washington hopes his men will eat well tonight.

When he glances back down at Hamilton, he finds thinly masked impatience waiting for him.

"What is it, my boy?"

"Sir." Hamilton's spine straightens. "Lafayette says there's something you should see in one of the houses. There's a farmer anxious to get back into his home, but I've put him off."

Washington makes no effort to hide his confusion. "What can Lafayette possibly think is so important in a place like this?"

"I don't know," Hamilton admits. "He wouldn't tell me. Just said to direct you there as quickly as possible."

Washington's brow furrows beneath the brim of his hat, but he dismounts quickly. He hands his reins to a passing lieutenant who will see his horse properly cared for in the wake of battle.

The farmhouse looks indistinguishable from its neighbors, all rough wood and uneven stone, but Washington's skin prickles as he and Hamilton draw close. The gray sky does nothing to brighten the image of the simple dwelling with its broken fences. There are few windows, all of them tiny, the glass too filthy to see through.

Hamilton leads the way to a skinny door where Tench Tilghman stands guard, trying to look intimidating. It's clear from Tilghman's expression that he hasn't been inside the house and doesn't know what he's guarding, but damned if he isn't determined to do a good job anyway.

"Carry on, soldier." Washington claps him soundly on the shoulder as he takes the lead from Hamilton and pushes through the door.

The farmhouse is a single story, one large room.

Inside, Washington stops so abruptly that Hamilton collides with his back. The door swings shut behind them with a heavy thump. There's no sign of Lafayette, but then why would there be? The man's attention is required elsewhere, securing the town, confining the enemy, managing exhausted troops. Which means the farmhouse is empty except for Washington, Hamilton, and the unexpected tableau before them.

"Sir?" Hamilton steps from behind him. "What—?" The question halts unspoken.

The large room looks nothing like the simply furnished farmhouse Washington expects. There are no chairs, no beds, no stools or chests or dining table. There is only empty floor and, at the far end of the house, an enormous bench covered in heavy drapery. The fabric is red and elegant, reaching almost to the floor. Atop the bench sit some twenty candles in iron sconces, unlit. A small stone rests at the center, barely smaller than Washington's closed fist, and off to the side a stack of hide-bound journals.

On the wall immediately behind the careful arrangement hangs an enormous mirror, clean and startlingly smooth. A treasure so valuable Washington can't fathom the cost. He sees his own startled reflection in the glass, stiff in his military blues and tricorn hat. Beside him Hamilton stands frozen, eyes wide and mouth agape.

Hamilton breathes a single wordless syllable that somehow manages to convey surprise, curiosity and just a hint of glee. Then he's moving, so suddenly he's halfway across the room before Washington realizes what he intends. Washington _should_ have realized in the very first moment. He's all too familiar with Hamilton's insatiable curiosity—his impulsiveness—and _of course_ Hamilton's reaction to a sight like this will be to get as close as possible. Maybe even to touch the items arrayed across what Washington can only describe as an altar.

"Hamilton, _stop_ ," Washington snaps, starting forward himself. His longer legs carry him quickly enough to reach Hamilton just before he can touch the altar.

Hamilton stops at the command. Washington puts himself between Hamilton and the altar anyway, even though it leaves very little space between them. He peers down at his aide with open exasperation. Hamilton is practically vibrating as he stares up at Washington in return. He looks like he's considering pushing past his general, orders be damned, and is just barely choosing discretion and obedience instead.

Washington arches a single disapproving eyebrow.

Hamilton barely recedes. "I wasn't going to touch anything."

Washington lets the eyebrow fall and his eyes narrow.

Hamilton huffs. "I wasn't going to touch very _much_." A familiar glint of stubbornness lights Hamilton's handsome face into something sharp and determined. The sight raises uninvited affection to mingle with Washington's exasperation.

"You aren't going to touch any of it," he says quietly. "Whatever this is, it's not something to be tampered with lightly."

"I know that."

Washington is genuinely surprised at Hamilton's sober tone. That the boy should recognize the seriousness of this discovery is… unexpected. Washington spent his own youth scoffing at such preposterous notions as magic and ritual. The realities of war eventually showed him a murkier and more terrifying truth, but in his experience even fellow soldiers rarely believe such things. Certainly he's never found someone as young as Hamilton to be credulous.

As his own surprise fades, he realizes Hamilton is peering at him with heavy consideration. Weighing him. It's a disconcerting sensation.

"You're trying to protect me," Hamilton says. "You think I was about to do something stupid."

"Weren't you?" Washington counters, more gently than he means to.

"I just wanted to see— I've only read accounts, I've never seen with my own eyes—"

"You surprise me, Hamilton. I knew your personal studies were eclectic. I didn't realize they encompassed the occult."

A sliver of wariness sneaks into Hamilton's expression, puts a faint crease at the very center of his brow. Washington very much wants to smooth that crease away. 

Instead he holds perfectly still as Hamilton admits, "I study everything. But some topics call for discretion. A soldier has to be mindful of appearances."

"You feared your fellows would find you ridiculous," Washington surmises. When the unease only deepens in Hamilton's expression, Washington realizes, "You feared _I_ would find you ridiculous. My boy, you are far too competent to ever be ridiculous."

" _You_ don't talk about these things. Even though you believe in them." Hamilton says it like he's testing out the idea, more question than statement. Fishing for confirmation that this is an understanding they share.

"Because you're right. A soldier must be mindful of appearances." Washington hesitates only an instant before admitting, "And the truth would be no comfort to the troops. Even if they believed me, what would the knowledge bring them? Fear of even greater forces leveled against us, of uglier ways to die? I won't do that to my men. It's the only thing I can protect them from."

"Your Excellency," Hamilton says, in the particular subservient tone he uses only for Washington, and only when he's unsure of his footing. "Please can I see the altar?"

Washington watches him for an extra heartbeat, weighing the danger, doing his best to ignore the itch of just how distracting it is to have Hamilton so close. At last he steps aside, turning to face the altar himself as he allows Hamilton to approach the intricate arrangement of materials.

Up close, the stone seems almost to shiver in the air. A nearly imperceptible glow twines along a pattern of grooves, traces like etchings into the otherwise smooth surface. Looking at it sends an unpleasant sensation of ice along Washington's spine, so he looks quickly elsewhere. His gaze lands on Hamilton, and he finds the boy's profile alight with an expression of fascination and excitement. Dark eyes that can slide so quickly between anger and humor are locked on the altar now, with a focus so fierce Washington wonders if Hamilton even remembers he is not alone.

 _Beautiful_ , Washington thinks, and then shakes the thought away like he has a hundred times before.

"Can you tell what it is?" he asks, unsurprised when Hamilton gives a jolt at being dragged back into the moment.

"No." Hamilton's gaze leaves the stone with obvious reluctance, and falls instead on the pile of ragged journals. "But I'd gamble my commission on these holding the answer." He hesitates, raises his eyes to Washington. "Sir, can I…?"

Washington considers, and honestly can't see any danger in it. Unlike the stone, the journals appear to be perfectly normal. Looking at them doesn't raise Washington's hackles or make the nape of his neck tingle with warning. They look like perfectly ordinary paper and hide, bound shut with leather bands and piled carefully at the edge of the bench.

"Go ahead," Washington says, Hamilton reaching for the top journal before he's even finished giving permission.

Washington edges closer to peer over his shoulder.

"Oh. Um. Sir, this… might take me some time." Hamilton's expression crinkles, perplexed. The journal is written in some indecipherable coded script, letters of the alphabet a jumble that makes Washington's head hurt. Whatever is written on these pages, it's clear the drafter didn't want to share. "By your leave, of course."

Again Washington considers, silent for a long moment. "What exactly are you asking me for?"

Hamilton blinks, tilts his head back so he can look Washington in the eye. "Time and permission to decipher these notes."

"To what end, my boy?"

Hamilton blinks again. Washington can almost see the thoughts whirling behind his eyes. "To discover if this artifact can help _us_ instead of the enemy. Whatever the British were trying to do, they never got the chance. Why should we waste the opportunity to use their own tricks against them?"

Washington thinks about it. He thinks long and hard about the obvious danger in what Hamilton is proposing, and about the potential advantages of harnessing an unknown power. They are not winning this war, and Washington is confident this stone isn't the only artifact the British have tried to use against them. Any advantage at all would be a miraculous improvement on their circumstances.

Beside him, Hamilton is uncharacteristically quiet. Unwilling patience as he waits for Washington's answer.

"You have one week," Washington says. "This town is ill-equipped as a military garrison. Seven days to regroup and rest the troops, and if you've managed to decipher those journals—"

"Then you'll let me try?"

Washington gives him a stern look. "Then we'll discuss it. But not a day sooner. And you _will not_ take any action without my express approval."

"Yes, Your Excellency. Of course." Sincerity flashes in Hamilton's eyes, and Washington prays he is not making a mistake.


	3. Chapter 3

They leave the altar exactly as it is. Washington orders a man posted at the farmhouse door at all times. Only Hamilton is allowed inside.

Washington discreetly pays the farmer out of his own pocket for the inconvenience. It would be well within his rights to requisition the building for the duration of the army's stay, but this is easier. Quieting frayed tempers, putting as little attention as possible on the waiting altar.

"General, no disrespect." Lafayette speaks in a low voice, standing beside Washington while a regiment drills before them. "But is this a good idea? Hamilton can be…" He pauses, searching for the right word, before finishing, "overzealous."

Lafayette knows what is inside that farmhouse, and he knows exactly what Hamilton is doing. His concerns are valid, but Washington has already made this decision. He's given Hamilton permission to search for answers. It's too late for a change of heart.

"You think giving him access to those journals is too risky." Washington cocks an eyebrow but doesn't take his attention off the troops. "He has orders not to touch anything." Hamilton always performs his duties on the edge of insubordination, but he has never yet disobeyed a direct order.

Lafayette's shrug is anything but careless, his shoulders weighted by concern for his friend. "Our little lion can probably find trouble regardless."

Washington snorts. "Our _little lion_ will be fine. I trust his discretion."

Lafayette breathes a noncommittal sound but offers no further protest. Washington can't imagine the Marquis is convinced, but there's no harm in having Lafayette primed and on his guard. It's a relief, honestly, that someone else in camp knows what Hamilton is doing—recognizes the potential danger—and will keep a close eye on him. Washington can't watch Hamilton every moment of the day, much as he might like to. He'll rest easier knowing Lafayette is watching, too.

The week passes, and on the day Washington begins giving orders to mobilize, Hamilton approaches with triumph in his stride.

"Your Excellency, a word in private?"

Hamilton doesn't specify where he wants to have this word, but he doesn't need to. Washington leads the way to the farmhouse, nodding to the sentry at the door as he steps across the threshold with Hamilton at his heels.

Inside, the single room farmhouse looks almost unchanged. Only the journals are missing from their place at the edge of the altar, spread across empty floor at the opposite end of the room. Hamilton moves toward the array of open pages as soon as the door is closed, dropping to sit cross-legged among them. He pulls a smaller ledger of his own from the pocket of his uniform, and opens it atop the largest of the coded notebooks.

Washington remains standing, but he draws close enough to peer down at Hamilton's work. Hamilton's shoulders are relaxed, his posture confident despite his position on the floor. There's a warm flush in his cheeks and fire flashing in his eyes, excitement in the way his delicate hands dart between the journals.

When everything is apparently arranged to his satisfaction, he looks up—and up—into Washington's face. "We can use the stone. I know how to do it."

"How to do _what_ , Hamilton?"

Hamilton is almost trembling in his eagerness. "The ritual isn't complicated. An incantation, a little wine to spill. Everything else is already here. We must have taken the town just in time to stop them."

"But what does the stone _do_."

Here Hamilton's excitement tempers—barely—and he admits, "I'm not precisely sure."

Washington's brow creases. "You expect me to allow this experiment when you _don't know_?"

"I never said I don't know," Hamilton quibbles stubbornly.

" _Hamilton_." Warning thunders beneath the quiet syllables.

Hamilton's mouth snaps shut and his jaw clenches, throat working in a hard swallow above the edge of his cravat. His cheeks, already bright, color in a way Washington can't decipher. For a moment, Hamilton is genuinely and uncharacteristically silent.

When he speaks, it's with renewed determination. "The journals aren't just instructions. They're research. Even the British weren't sure what they had at first, but they learned enough to proceed."

"Then why aren't _you_ sure?"

"These notes are deliberately cryptic, even beneath the cipher. Whoever wrote them, they avoided clear answers." Hamilton picks up speed as he talks, gesturing jerkily in the air before him, flipping to a particular page in his own notes. "But what they _did_ write— Sir, this is a direct quote: The stone, if used properly, will multiply the forces at the conjurer's command."

"That could mean anything." Washington crosses his arms over his chest and doesn't take his eyes off of Hamilton.

"I know." The concession doesn't abate Hamilton's agitation. "But imagine the possibilities, sir. It could be a summons to draw more soldiers to our cause. It could augment the strength or endurance of our troops. It could create a battalion out of _nothing_. There's no way to know if we don't try."

"I'm not a gambling man, my boy."

Hamilton rises from the floor, his own small ledger in hand, his eyes bright and earnest. He is standing too close when he reaches his feet, but he neither relents nor retreats. Washington refuses to step back; it would feel too much like surrendering ground he still needs. He holds himself perfectly rigid as he waits for the inevitable argument.

"Your Excellency, _please_." Hamilton sounds steadier than Washington expects. "I know it's a risk. But we aren't winning this war. I'm almost certain General Howe is using magic against us. We need to level the field."

Long years of experience have made Washington leery of magic, no matter which side of the conflict is calling on it. There is also no denying that Hamilton is _right_. The situation is dire. They can't afford to turn their backs on a potential advantage.

But Washington isn't ready to give his blessing just yet. "Could it be a trap?"

No hint of surprise reaches Hamilton's face, which means he has already considered and rejected the possibility. "No."

"How certain are you?"

"Nearly entirely."

That _nearly_ goes farther in convincing Washington than anything else could. That one word bespeaks honest fallibility. Hamilton is admitting he could be wrong—obviously a difficult concession—and standing firm in his certainty anyway.

"Convince me," Washington says.

Hamilton's shoulders straighten, his spine going rigid as he stands at attention.

"Sir." He ducks his head, a peculiar yet familiar gesture of deference. "If the British intended the stone as a trap, it would make a poor one. They couldn't have known what path we would take through the valley. And the journals… Sir, the cipher was impressive. If they _wanted_ us to follow these instructions, why risk that we might not decode them?"

"Was it so difficult?" Washington murmurs, skeptical. It never once occurred to him that Hamilton might fail.

"I was almost unsuccessful, sir." The tension in Hamilton's neck and shoulders conveys how difficult the admission is. More, it convinces Washington completely. If the cipher almost bested his chief of staff, then it was never intended to be broken.

The stone and its abandoned preparations are no trap. Still a risk, but one worth taking.

"Do it," Washington says, and Hamilton's head snaps up, eyes wide with pleasure and surprise. A faint smile twitches at one corner of Hamilton's expressive mouth, and Washington takes a reluctant backward step. "What do you need to begin?"

"Only a bottle of wine. I'll fetch one from Lafayette. He's been hoarding the last of his reserve."

Quick as that Hamilton is gone, and Washington finds himself alone in the farmhouse. There's a thrum of expectation filling the space, a low shiver that winds through the empty air. Alone in the room, Washington is abruptly aware of a quiet whisper at the outermost edges of his senses, so soft he could almost believe he's imagining it.

He approaches the altar. Everything looks exactly as it did seven days ago. Hamilton has obeyed orders; he hasn't touched anything. Washington is grateful his confidence wasn't misplaced.

The stone still glows faintly, an almost imperceptible patchwork of swirls and sigils. Lovely and strangely captivating, despite the chill creeping along Washington's nape.

He doesn't intend to touch the stone, but a moment later the smooth texture is right there beneath his fingers. Warm. Pulsing with a low rhythm.

Like a heartbeat.

A mirror of that heartbeat echoes within Washington's flesh, and in the next instant a rush of… something. Heat. Crackling energy like the edge of a storm. There is lightning on the horizon—Washington can feel it even though he can't see the sky.

He withdraws his hand—careful not to move the stone—and raises his eyes, from the red-draped altar to the massive gilt mirror filling the wall behind it. His own expression reflects back at him, grim and clouded.

A moment later the farmhouse door clatters open and shut, and then Hamilton is beside him once more. Hamilton's presence chases away all else, all the whispers and emptiness and trepidation. Hamilton's confidence leaves no space for any of those things.

"Will you stay?" Hamilton asks, as though there's any chance Washington might choose to be elsewhere for this undertaking.

"Of course." Washington takes in Hamilton's serious profile, the deep shadows beneath his eyes. "What do you need me to do?"

"Just hold this." Hamilton hands him the bottle of wine, already open. "And don't touch anything. Or talk. Once I begin the incantation, any interference will break the spell."

Washington raises an eyebrow, but nods without protest. He takes half a step backward, giving Hamilton precedence before the altar. Hamilton has already removed his blue uniform jacket. His waistcoat and cravat are as stiff as ever, but his loose shirtsleeves give him an almost careless air.

There's nothing careless in his manner as he opens the ledger in his hands, the pages filled with Hamilton's own precise and fluid scrawl. Hamilton's voice, when it comes, is a low and steady murmur, in a language that could almost be Latin.

Almost.

Hamilton's mouth forms the words without faltering, and his gaze goes distant—lost and distracted—somber as a shadow. Washington is staring. It takes him several seconds to wrench his focus away, and in that time Hamilton's voice continues, rises, speeds faster.

Washington meets his own eyes once more in the silvered mirror, just as the dozens of unlit candles burst aflame. A rush of wind accompanies the firelight, ruffling Hamilton's shirt sleeves and the pages of his journal.

A surge of heat singes and twists beneath Washington's skin, behind his ribs, clamping tight around his heart and lungs. For an instant he can't breathe. He can't feel anything beyond the sharp lack of air in his chest. A moment later and his lungs heave, but his heart still feels wrong. Beating too hard—beating too _fast_ —like there are two hearts at war in his chest, both pounding at once. His temples throb, and he doesn't recognize his own eyes in the mirror.

He startles when Hamilton plucks the wine bottle from his loose fingers. Hamilton's lips are still moving, but his voice has dropped so low Washington can't hear it beneath his own warring heartbeat and the mounting rush of wind. The stone glows brighter with every syllable, until it's white hot, too painful to look at. The candle flames dance wildly, but they don't flicker or blow out. If anything they burn higher and hotter as Hamilton raises the wine bottle and pours a single splash of burgundy liquid over the stone.

There's an audible crack—a snap of complete stillness—and as the impossible wind disappears, the candles douse themselves in eerie unison.

Hamilton is silent, motionless as a statue.

Washington blinks, trying to dispel the distorted shadows that linger across his vision. It's a long time before he can see properly in the dim natural light. Longer still before his heart feels normal within his chest. His whole body aches as though he's just finished a long, hard ride, and he wonders if Hamilton feels the same. When he risks a glance, he finds the boy looking winded and thunderstruck. Staring down at the altar with its darkened candles and crimson drapery.

The stone glows less blindingly now. More than anything it resembles the hottest ember of coal at the center of a camp stove.

Hamilton's shoulders sag. He looks more exhausted than Washington has ever seen him, which is a tall order indeed. When Hamilton's arm falls to his side, fingers loosening, Washington snatches the bottle of wine before it can slip to the floor.

Washington bites his tongue to keep from asking if it worked. Despite the tired slouch of Hamilton's posture, he's not sure if it's safe yet to speak.

"It's done." The high, smooth register of Hamilton's voice has been sanded down to something low and rough. "We can talk freely."

"Did it work?"

Hamilton turns, tilts his head to blink up at Washington. "Yes. I think so. I felt… something. It didn't feel like failure."

"When will we know for sure?"

Hamilton faces forward once more, eyes glancing past the ember-glow of the stone before rising to settle on the mirror. "It depends what the stone did. Obviously we'll know immediately if it conjured a battalion out of dirt and shadows. But I think that's unlikely, since I don't hear any panic outside."

"So there's nothing we can do?" Washington doesn't cherish the idea of waiting for answers to a question like this.

"We should take the stone with us. And the mirror." Hamilton abruptly retreats from the altar, crossing the farmhouse to kneel amid the coded journals, closing and gathering them. His movements are sluggish. Washington will have to keep close watch when they ride out. He can't have his chief of staff dozing off in the saddle.

"Hamilton," Washington says once the boy is back on his feet. Hamilton sways a little, and peers at him over the armload of journals. Washington stifles an exasperated sigh. "It will be several hours before we march. Get some sleep before you fall over."

It's a testament to how drained Hamilton must be that his sole reply is, "Of course, sir."


	4. Chapter 4

Days pass, exhausted and endless, and Hamilton watches the army more closely than ever. His blood is _alive_ with a wild certainty of success. Surely they'll see the fruits of his effort before long. The magic worked. The stone is secure in Washington's keeping, and its bright, steady ember glow is proof enough. But Hamilton doesn't need proof when he can feel it beneath his skin. The thready pulse of expectation is maddening.

He waits.

And he waits.

And he waits longer still.

Nothing happens. The state of the rebel army doesn't improve, no matter how fervently Hamilton keeps his vigil. There's no rise in strength or endurance: the troops are hungrier and more worn down than ever. There's no swell in numbers as soldiers join the cause: if anything the army faces more desertions than before. There is _no change_ for the better, and Hamilton doesn't understand. He was so sure.

How can his efforts have come to so much nothing?

He tries to keep his frustrations discreet. Other than himself, only Washington and Lafayette know what he's done. Frustration may be a constant companion to the troops, but that's no reason for Hamilton to broadcast his secrets to the entire army.

He may be a terrible liar, but he _does_ occasionally exercise discretion. He knows how to guard his most important secrets. His past. His frantic fear of dying in lonely obscurity. His unruly heart and the things it wants, despite Hamilton's best efforts to convince it otherwise.

Their newest camp is like the dozen that came before. Houses have been requisitioned for officer use, and a veritable siege of tents lines the fields and hills along the outskirts. At the southernmost edge of town, headquarters have been set up in a two-story home, small but well outfitted. Washington has claimed for his own the sole bedroom upstairs, and the ground floor quickly absorbs an orderly avalanche of ink and parchment. Correspondence, orders, maps, reports, supply lists—a deluge of information, which Hamilton is constantly struggling to manage, barely keeping Washington's staff afloat.

The aides themselves have an even smaller house of their own. No beds, but a dry floor for their bedrolls is luxury enough. Better still, there are plenty of taverns in town. Half a dozen legitimate businesses, plus several more that have sprung up haphazardly since the army's arrival. Hamilton doesn't drink much—alcohol joins poorly with his focus and his studies—but having the option is still a pleasant change.

He's hit a wall of his own making the night Laurens pries him from his work and steers him to the nearest tavern.

Exhaustion has crept into Hamilton's bones, deeper since Washington allowed him to perform the ritual that should have improved their situation. He's kept on top of his duties by sheer stubbornness, but his own studies are flagging.

Maybe it's a question of distraction. Hamilton has always been fiercely aware of his general, near at hand and just out of reach. Ever since the ritual he finds his own senses heightened, and he doesn't know _why_. Constantly searching. It would be enough to drive anyone mad, but Hamilton hasn't the luxury of losing his mind.

He stares at the drink Laurens plunks down on the rickety table before him. Bourbon. The cup is too full, and some of the drink splashes over the side to slick the rough wood of the table.

The late hour hasn't emptied the boisterous tavern. Despite the fact that it's nearing midnight, Hamilton can barely hear himself think. Settling on the stool to Hamilton's left, Laurens leans close to say, loudly and directly in his ear, "Drink. And then talk."

The first command Hamilton follows readily, savoring the sharp bite of liquor across his tongue and down his parched throat. The second poses more of a problem. He finds himself reluctant to speak. It's an unfamiliar sensation.

Laurens lets Hamilton drink in silence all the way to the bottom of the glass, but when a second round materializes, he leans in once more and asks, "Alexander, what's wrong?" He doesn't need to raise his voice this time; though the tavern is still busy, the volume has fallen to something less painful. Still noisy—boisterous enough to leave Laurens and Hamilton relative privacy in their corner—but no longer overwhelming.

Hamilton hesitates. He considers obfuscating, even though John will see straight through him.

"Don't even try it," Laurens says before Hamilton manages to open his mouth. Dark eyes narrow, delicate brow lowering with disapproval, and John snatches the fresh drink away. He holds it out of Hamilton's reach, an implicit threat. If Hamilton wants his drink back, he has to tell John the truth.

Hamilton doesn't want the drink all that badly. What he does want—sudden and sharp—is to be honest with his best friend. John Laurens holds more of Hamilton's secrets than any other living soul. If he doesn't possess all of them, he comes as close as Hamilton will allow. Surely _this_ secret won't do any harm.

"Something's got you more fucked up than usual," Laurens says. "Tell me."

So Hamilton does. Tells him, in a private hush, about the farmhouse with its mirror and candles and crimson-draped bench. About the journals and their nearly impenetrable cipher. About the stone.

About the raw and undeniable sensation of _real magic_ beneath Hamilton's own hands.

Laurens stares at him after, wide-eyed as he absorbs all the improbable information. Disbelief fades to credulity with heartening speed. John believes him. But confusion clings to that sober expression, evident in the shadowed crease at the very center of John's brow.

"Okay," Laurens says. "So it worked. What's the problem?"

"The problem is it _didn't_ work," Hamilton bursts, louder than he should. He slouches his shoulders, forces himself beneath some faint measure of control. "Nothing happened. It's been _days_. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I did fail."

The idea tightens something unpleasant in his chest and raises a pang of nausea. Not at the thought that magic itself might be beyond him—his thorny pride isn't quite that fragile—but at the thought of letting Washington down.

The general has been careful not to voice his disappointment, but Hamilton has _always_ watched Washington more closely than he should. He knows, whether the man speaks the words or not, that Washington is disappointed in him. It's evident in the tired slump of his shoulders, and in the way Washington never quite looks directly at him. Washington maintains his usual unflappable facade in front of the other officers, the generals who visit camp, the troops and staff members who rely on him to keep spirits up.

But when he has only Hamilton to impress, fatigue and despair show through, and Hamilton feels the guilt of it as acutely as a heart attack.

He stops short of baring his entire soul, biting his tongue to keep from admitting how much it matters to him—how personal his desire to ease the general's burdens.

"Okay, hold up a second." John is staring hard at the cup in his hands.

All around them conversations rise and rumble and crash with laughter, high tensions easing with drink. There's already been one fight. There will probably be another before the hour finally chases the tavern's occupants to their beds. Hamilton doesn't care. He's intently focused on Laurens, waiting to see what his friend will say.

When Laurens finally continues, it's in a voice gone cautious and low. "Magic is real. It's unpredictable. Dangerous even. And you _did it anyway_?" This last he breathes on a disapproving hiss, protectiveness snapping in his eyes. "For fuck's sake, Alexander, have you _no_ instinct for self preservation?"

He doesn't, really. It's no secret, how in his worst moments he entertains the notion of a martyr's death. Surely a noble end would be preferable to living and dying a nobody.

"I was careful," Hamilton protests, but Laurens still looks angry.

"And Washington," Laurens presses. "He _allowed this_?"

"Not without reservations." Hamilton won't put into words the dire truth of their circumstances. The full and demoralizing picture is one to which only Hamilton and the other major generals are privy. Even Laurens, competent and trusted as he is among Washington's aides and officers, doesn't know how desperate their situation truly is. Hamilton won't be the one to put it into words for him.

But Laurens looks at him for a long, _long_ moment. Then says, "It's really that bad, isn't it." There's no question at all in his tone.

Hamilton nods. He doesn't say the _yes_ or _it's worse_ that hover on the tip of his tongue. He doesn't have to. From the deepening of shadows in John's eyes, his point is taken anyway, and Hamilton feels guilty for burdening his friend.

"It is _very late_ , mes amies," Lafayette's voice breaks in upon their silence, a welcome distraction. There's a scrape of wood as he scoots a stool closer and sits to Hamilton's right. "Shouldn't all pretty young things be asleep at this hour?"

Laurens snorts into his cup. "You're one to talk."

Hamilton takes a sip of his own drink, which Laurens has grudgingly returned to him, and he eyes Lafayette over the rim of the cup. The bluster and humor sit thinner on Lafayette's face than usual. There's tension beneath the wide smile, strain in the too-sharp flash of teeth. Laurens must sense it too, given how quickly he drops his friendly ribbing and leans his elbows on the table.

"Do not look at me like that," Lafayette grouses, letting the smile slip away.

"Like what?" Laurens retorts, smooth and sly and needling.

"Hey." Hamilton nudges Lafayette with his elbow. "What's wrong?"

Lafayette glances at him, darts a look back at Laurens. "The general," he says, and Hamilton's insides twist tight with worry. "He is out of sorts. I have never seen him in such a state."

Hamilton sits straighter in his chair, eyes locked hard on Lafayette's troubled face. He's relieved when Laurens asks in a low tone, "Is the general ill?"

Lafayette gives an eloquent shrug. "He did not say. But he was… agitated. When I asked after his health, he demanded to be left in solitude."

Laurens hisses through his teeth, quieter than a whistle of surprise. Hamilton makes no sound at all. The chill that snakes down his spine is irrational. The general has emptied headquarters to make room for his moods before, and he is certainly entitled to do so now.

But even at his bleakest, Hamilton has never known Washington to order Lafayette away. Not point blank—not before Lafayette opts to leave voluntarily. The whole camp knows how Washington looks on Lafayette as almost a son of his own, which makes this eviction a singular occurrence indeed.

Hamilton finishes his drink in a fog of distraction, while Laurens and Lafayette broach lighter topics. Letters from home, French wine, the frustrating lack of society in their current encampment. Hamilton answers when they address him directly, does his best not to seem perturbed. Probably he fails. Quiet is an unusual humor for him.

He wishes the warmth from the bourbon were enough to quiet the drumbeat of worry beneath his skin, but he is still frustratingly sober.

Nearly an hour sneaks past before Laurens and Lafayette decide to retire. Hamilton should sleep too. Exhaustion is painting the edges of the world blurry, making everything feel a little less than real.

He retraces his steps toward headquarters instead, because he won't find sleep when he's wound this tight. The two-story house is dark but for a flicker of candlelight in the sole upstairs window. Hamilton has to light a candle of his own when he steps into the silent shadows of the main floor. There's no sign of the other aides. Of course there isn't—who in their right mind would be at work so late when everyone will be expected to report for duty with the sunrise?

Hamilton hesitates just beyond the threshold, in the tiny foyer at the base of the narrow staircase. Through the open kitchen door he sees nothing but darkness. The door opposite is locked, but Hamilton has the key; he carries the only copy besides the one Washington keeps on his person at all times. 

He unlocks the door, finding more darkness inside. The shadows give way before his candle, the small flame straining to illuminate what was either a large study or a small dining room before the army arrived. The room is taken up by the enormous table at which Washington's staff works.

Hamilton leaves the door open behind him, keenly aware of the silence that surrounds and fills the small residence. If he didn't know that Washington is upstairs, he would assume the entire house to be empty.

It takes every ounce of Hamilton's self control not to turn around and stride up that staircase. Washington has summoned him upstairs before, seeking his aid with more sensitive information, or with personal correspondence. It would be forward—damn near insubordinate—for Hamilton to present himself without a summons, but Washington might forgive him. He's forgiven Hamilton's other indiscretions, and there have been many.

But Washington sent Lafayette away. More than that, it was an order Lafayette _obeyed_. Whatever this crisis of mood, the general isn't in poor health. If he were, Lafayette would have called for a physician, orders be damned.

So Hamilton lights more candles—enough to work by despite the late hour—and gathers what he needs. Sharpened quill, ink bottle, a fresh supply of foolscap, a stack of letters that will call on his entire focus. Most of them are letters that require a reply directly from Washington, but Hamilton won't pass them along unless he finds something unexpected within. He can write Washington's replies without bothering the general, can mimic his signature so perfectly no one but the general himself has ever caught on. If this is the only way he can lighten Washington's load, then this is what he will do.

Faintly overhead he hears footfalls, Washington's heavy stride muffled by thick floorboards. Then stillness. Footsteps. More stillness.

Tomorrow will see Hamilton even more exhausted than he already is, but he doesn't care. If Washington needs him tonight, he will be here. He will remain exactly where he is and let himself be completely absorbed in his tasks. Come morning perhaps he can steal a couple hours of sleep, once the other aides rouse for the day.

Tonight he is staying right here.


	5. Chapter 5

Cool air and solitude are all the relief the night has brought, and they aren't much. Washington's temples are throbbing harder than ever. The sullen headache he's been nursing for days has grown exponentially worse in the past few hours.

Despite the relative luxury of his accommodations—it's not often he has an actual bed—he finds the small room suffocating. The flicker of candlelight only worsens the feeling, long shadows strangling every corner, casting the floor in wavering patterns. The small table near the door is covered in documents that need his attention, but he can't bring himself to look at them. He has no focus, no energy, no calm. He needs rest, but he doesn't relish the prospect of faceless nightmares creeping beneath his skin, interrupting his sleep as they've done for the past three nights.

He doesn't know what's wrong with him. He has no fever, no shakes, no clenching nausea. Only the pounding headache in his temples and a restlessness that threatens to drive him mad.

He's pacing again without meaning to, and he forces himself to stillness. The mirror is before him—he hadn't wanted it in his private bedchamber, but there was no better choice. Having brought it with them, it needed to go somewhere, and it's far too valuable a relic to leave sitting at the base of the busy stairs below.

So here it sits, reflecting the room eerily in the low and unsteady light. Right out in the open, unlike the still-glowing stone that's been wrapped in thick fabric, tucked in a small box and locked in the trunk beside Washington's bed.

Perhaps before they march again Washington will have the mirror melted down. Simple gold may be less valuable, but it will be easier to transport than this enormous mirror, and infinitely easier to trade with. Surely by now Hamilton will concede that whatever the ritual was meant to accomplish, it failed. There's no point safeguarding the components when this amount of gold can help feed their hungry army.

Hamilton is downstairs right now despite the late hour. Washington heard the front door open and close not long ago, and he knows it's Hamilton without needing to check. Lafayette made his concerns clear, but he won't return in violation of a direct order. Of Washington's remaining aides and officers, only Hamilton would consider the middle of the night a reasonable time to get more work done.

A twinge of sentiment ignites like a spark in Washington's chest, warmth and reassurance at the knowledge that his boy is close. He quickly banishes the moment's weakness and realizes he is pacing again. A low growl escapes his throat as he forces himself to stop before the mirror once more.

His own face stares back at him from the glass. Washington is wrung out and exhausted, and he looks it, looks more defeated than he's ever felt in his life.

The image almost seems to pulse in time with Washington's heartbeat—with the throbbing at his temples—candle flame and shadows rendering the image unsteady. He's felt _off_ since he allowed Hamilton to perform that damnable ritual. Drained and twisted up inside. Unable to pinpoint the problem, unable to articulate _why_ , but painfully aware that something isn't right.

When the shadows encroach farther across the surface of the mirror, Washington at first assumes it's just his own vision failing him. He's gone too many nights without proper rest, and he is understandably distracted by the headache threatening to split his skull in two.

But it's not his vision. The flame of his candle is guttering before a soft rise of wind, icy in the small room. Drafty as the house is, even thin walls can't account for the sudden gust chilling his skin. Another moment and the chill is _beneath_ his skin, twining along his bones, into his blood, through his lungs. His knees buckle without warning, and it's all he can do to ease his fall by grasping the foot of the bed, landing softly enough not to bruise his aching joints. His chest has gone tight and cold, and he clutches at his cravat when he realizes he can't _breathe_.

What is this? His jaw works but no sound comes from his throat. He can only stare at his own reflection as it blurs and shifts—

As it blurs and shifts and becomes _two_. There's still his own face, his own eyes, staring at him with winded shock. But beside his reflection in the glass there's now a second identical image.

Washington's neck twinges as he twists to look beside him, sure he'll find the space empty. He must be imagining this.

But even though he's no longer looking in the mirror, he finds his own face staring back at him. Eyes wide, mouth agape, chest rising and falling with fast breaths. A moment later and Washington's own lungs are working again. Air fills his chest too quickly, leaving him lightheaded. The figure beside him is a perfect likeness, kneeling awkwardly on the floor in the exact same position Washington has fallen into. Same dark skin painted darker by shadows. Same blue uniform coat, white waistcoat, neckcloth. Same tight pinch of confusion creasing an otherwise smooth brow.

"You—" Washington's voice rumbles as warmth finally returns to his limbs. "What are you?"

His doppelgänger rises unsteadily. "Are you all right?"

Before Washington can answer, there's a hand extended toward him, helping him to his feet even though he doesn't need the assistance.

Up close the view is even more uncanny.

"How?" Washington asks, though he has no real doubt as to cause. He wonders what the stone would look like if he opened the box and unwrapped it now. The painful pounding in his temples has finally stopped. He feels blessedly normal.

But again his image doesn't answer the question. "We need to leave. Discreetly. Is there anyone outside this house?"

"Not at this hour. Only Hamilton downstairs." Washington's not sure why he's assuming his reflection will know who Hamilton is. His brow furrows heavily. "Why?"

"I'll explain outside camp." Then the man is moving for the door, walking with surprising quiet across the creaky floorboards. Washington extinguishes the candle as he follows, confused but needing to see this through. The low-ceilinged hall beyond the bedroom is dark, but Washington has had days to learn this path, and his reflection also navigates unerringly to the narrow stairs.

The steps creak beneath their boots, loud enough that Washington expects Hamilton to ambush them in the main foyer. He's surprised to find the foyer empty when he steps down from the final stair—until he glances through the open door to the study and sees the frantic speed of Hamilton's quill scratching across paper. Whatever the boy is writing has him completely enthralled, that ferocious focus turned entirely inward.

Washington takes a step nearer the open door, only to be stopped by a palm against his chest. He glances at his doppelgänger. Even in the faint candlelight from the other room Washington can see the firm shake of his head, and subsides.

Whatever urgent business is before him, there will be time later to inform Hamilton that the attempt at magic worked after all. In a backwards and confused manner, yes, but there's no denying the success before Washington's own eyes.

Moving deliberately silently, and with no lantern to light their way, the two identical figures slip out into the cool night. Pale light glows down from a gibbous moon, making it necessary to keep to the shadows as they navigate past sparse buildings and the uneven sprawl of army tents that clutter the fields. There's a river not far from the town, a thick wood growing along its banks, and it's to the protection of these trees that Washington's somber reflection leads him.

"Your chief of staff is a complicated creature."

Washington blinks at his companion. " _My_ chief of staff," he echoes, thinking it through. "Then you do know you're a facsimile." A facsimile who has just proven he knows the things Washington knows—at least some of them—and perhaps possesses other knowledge besides. After all, he's brought them out of camp to some apparently urgent purpose. Curiosity gnaws at Washington, making him impatient.

"Yes." That voice must be identical too, but it sounds so different to the way Washington hears himself in his own head. And instead of providing the answers he needs, the voice continues, "Tell me about Hamilton." There's no mistaking the fascinated curiosity underpinning the request, and it's ridiculous that Washington feels a possessive surge of jealousy. If this perfect imitation is fascinated with Alexander Hamilton, who is there to blame but Washington himself?

"He's a competent soldier. Genius as an aide. I could not manage this war without him."

"Is that why you keep him so close?"

There's nothing overtly accusing in the words, but the undercurrent is unmistakable and Washington rankles. "I don't know what you're implying, but—"

His reflection chuckles, and the sound is disarming enough that Washington falls silent. Allows his image to continue, "There's no point being coy. I'm _you_ , aren't I? You can admit you find the boy compelling."

"He is not a boy," Washington says, even though that's exactly how he thinks of Hamilton in his effort to quash inappropriate thoughts. "He's a promising young man of twenty-two, and an officer under my command."

"He's also beautiful. And he worships you. A different general might be tempted to ask for more."

Washington's blood warms guiltily at the thought, and he turns to stare up at the moon, willing the heat away. Trying not to let his doppelgänger's dangerous words creep beneath his skin. He ignores the restless rustle of movement behind him, footsteps, the scrape of wet leaves and overgrowth along the ground as he considers his answer.

"I would not use him that way," he says at last. "And I would not put him in a position to refuse me." He's never once been tempted as his reflection suggests. Such a demand would be unpardonable. A betrayal entirely beyond Washington's constitution.

"No." The voice actually sounds exasperated now. "I suppose you wouldn't."

Washington frowns and begins to turn, suddenly uneasy. Before his gaze can find his doppelgänger there's a crack of impact, a burst of sensation as something stiff and heavy collides with the side of his head.

Then nothing but darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

Hamilton's eyes are blurring when he finishes drafting the letter beneath his hands, an angry missive that's turned even angrier for his writing past the point of exhaustion. He'll have to reread it in the morning, maybe rewrite it entirely. If nothing else, the general will want it tempered into something less likely to inspire mutiny. Much as Hamilton might hate the notion, there's a place for diplomacy even in war.

He rises from his chair, partly to stretch, partly to set the letter with the other correspondence he's already finished tonight. His back and neck feel tight, his eyes straining in the dim candle light. He may need to surrender himself to sleep after all. There are at least four more hours until sunrise, and Hamilton is liable to nod off on top of his work long before then.

"What are you doing here, Hamilton?"

He startles into his straightest posture at Washington's voice behind him. He turns quickly, making his neck twinge, and finds the general standing in the open doorframe. Washington's arms are crossed, his shoulders relaxed—he looks more at ease than Hamilton has seen him in days. The sight of him is a relief, but it also sets Hamilton's pulse racing.

"Working," he says when he realizes Washington is still waiting for an answer.

"In the dark? When the whole camp is asleep?" Washington steps into the room—closes the door despite the empty house—and comes clearer in the flickering light from the table. "You should rest while you can."

Hamilton bites his tongue. He won't admit that what really brought him back here tonight was worry. He turns toward the table, to the stack of papers covered in his own steady hand. They've scattered a little, knocked askew by the force of his surprise, and he gathers them up. Careful and methodical.

Washington's heavy footsteps cross the room, and Hamilton expects the general to appear at his side, perhaps demand the stack of papers Hamilton is holding. But instead of beside him, Washington stops at his back—close enough for the general's body heat to encroach through the fabric of Hamilton's jacket. The papers fall from his hands, scattering once more across the table.

"You need to take better care of yourself." Washington's voice is a warm rumble at close range, and it freezes Hamilton in place. "What are you working on that couldn't wait until morning?"

"I—" Hamilton can't remember _what_ he was working on. His spine is alight with Washington's unaccustomed proximity, and confusion twists hot in his chest. Washington hasn't touched him, but his skin is warming anyway.

"Are you all right, my boy?" Washington murmurs the question directly in Hamilton's ear. A moment later Washington's hand is at his arm, harder than necessary for a gesture of concern. He's crowding closer now—there's no space left between them—and it's all Hamilton can do to stop himself from leaning his whole body into that deceptively inviting heat.

He knows better. Knows the press of Washington's chest at his back means none of the things Hamilton's eager mind wants it to mean. But his skin still shivers at the way Washington says _my boy_ , and at the way he can almost feel Washington's lips brushing his ear. Hamilton's attention is _always_ on his general—nothing new there—but his nerves are on fire now, because Washington is touching him. Washington so rarely touches him, and never like this. There's something almost possessive in the gesture, which still hasn't released his arm, and Hamilton's throat is tight with confusion.

"Sir." His voice is strained, and he prays he sounds more confounded than needy. "What are you doing?"

"I should think that's obvious enough," Washington says, and this time his lips unmistakably brush the shell of Hamilton's ear. He presses in without subtlety now, intimate along Hamilton's back, and his grip tightens in a way that makes Hamilton's heart pound violently. "I'm taking what's mine."

Hamilton's legs tremble beneath him and his eyes fly like panic to the windows along the far wall—but of course the windows are blocked by heavy curtains to protect the sensitive documents in this room. No one can possibly see the impropriety unfolding between general and aide. Hamilton's throat works in a hard swallow as he grips the edge of the table for support.

He's not sure where either the sense of reason or strength of will come from, but he hears himself answer in a voice that is not at all convincing, "I'm not yours."

Washington's low chuckle ghosts over his skin and sends a shiver along Hamilton's spine, makes his eyes fall closed and his breath catch.

"Aren't you?" Washington's other hand curls at Hamilton's hip, subtle as a cannonade and no less possessive than the fingers still gripping his arm. A moment later Washington nuzzles at his throat just above the line of his cravat, and Hamilton inhales sharply.

" _Sir_." He sounds breathless to his own ears.

"Do you want me to leave?" Washington presses a kiss to the speeding pulse point beneath his jaw.

He should say yes. "No," Hamilton answers in a ragged, helpless voice.

"Do you want me to stop?" A lower kiss, a graze of teeth.

"No," Hamilton whispers, curling his fingers tighter at the edge of the table. He _wants_ Washington to touch him. He can't bring himself to care about the consequences.

"Good." Washington's mouth closes hard on his throat—high enough there will be no hiding the mark—and this is no teasing kiss. This is heat, suction, a sting of teeth. Washington is bruising him deliberately, and Hamilton should care. Should make him _stop_. But he can barely breathe as he lets his head drop back against Washington's shoulder, lets it happen, pliant and unresisting. He shakes straight down to his marrow when Washington draws off, licks at the abused skin, and shifts his focus to another spot. Higher than the first, even more visible. Repeats the trick.

Hamilton doesn't know what possesses him to reach up and scramble at his own cravat. He yanks it off, discarding it on the table, and the effort earns him a pleased hum.

"I like the way you taste, Alexander," Washington murmurs into Hamilton's skin as he accepts the invitation and chooses another place, another mark. The hand at Hamilton's hip slides forward, Washington's palm pressing flat to his stomach.

Hamilton bites down hard on his own lower lip to keep from moaning aloud. He reaches across to lay a hand over Washington's, where it rests just above his waist, curling his fingers around that strong wrist and holding on.

When Washington nudges the collar of his uniform down to claim the bare skin where neck meets shoulder, Hamilton can't keep quiet anymore. He gasps a sound more whimper than moan, and god, he knows they're being careless. There will be nothing discreet about the line of bruises marring his throat tomorrow, and no way to hide them from his fellow soldiers.

He doesn't care. He's always been impulsive, and in this moment the want in his blood has far overtaken any thought of caution.

It's more instinctive need than conscious intent when he pushes Washington's hand downward—urging that firm touch past his stomach to the increasingly evident arousal beneath his breeches. For an instant Washington seems to cooperate, but it doesn't last. In the next moment Washington's hand slips from his hold to capture him in turn, strong fingers circling his wrist. Holding on too tightly, but Hamilton doesn't mind, even as Washington's strength makes him ache and gasp aloud.

"Not yet." Washington's mouth grazes the kiss-darkened line of his throat. "I'm not going to touch you yet."

"But, _sir_ ," Hamilton groans, and oh, suddenly he is vividly aware of the hot, hard line of Washington's cock nudging his backside. Such an unfamiliar sensation, pressing right up against him, a threat and a promise.

"No," Washington holds firm. "I don't want you finishing before we've even begun."

Hamilton whimpers, but Washington only grinds forward against him, jostling his thighs against the edge of the table and making the candle flames shake. A merciless tease.

"You'll be begging long before I'm through with you." Washington bites at his ear. He squeezes Hamilton's wrist harder to emphasize his point—hard enough that Hamilton might protest the rough handling if he weren't so utterly overwhelmed, so greedy for Washington to keep touching him.

"Yes," Hamilton agrees, winded and lost.

"And you'll be so good for me, won't you," Washington practically purrs.

" _Yes_."

"You don't have to." Washington's voice dips, deep and rumbling as he presses the words directly into Hamilton's skin. "You can fight me. If you want to, you can struggle. I'll take you anyway. I'll put you on your back. Pin you down and force my way between your thighs, put my cock inside you while you try to escape."

Hamilton trembles, helpless in Washington's hold, helpless against the desperation clawing up inside him. The things Washington is saying are filthy. Forceful and _wrong_. He can't imagine the general thinking them, let alone speaking them aloud, but there's no denying that voice. And Hamilton has had nothing but fantasies for so long, he aches with wanting Washington any way he can have him. Even like this—even the way Washington is describing now—and he wonders if he _should_ fight. If Washington wants him to struggle, to resist.

God, he'll do anything if it means Washington's hands on him. 

He's never let a man touch him before, for all his wanting. He's never been taken the way Washington's violent words are promising to claim him. The edge of threat doesn't come close to tempering the inferno of arousal twisting beneath Hamilton's skin.

He struggles to draw a real breath, and finally manages to ask, "Is— Is that how you want me, sir?"

Washington makes a strangled noise at the question, whole body jerking forward and crushing against him. Hamilton's head rushes with vertigo a moment later when Washington's hands shift on him, drag at him, and suddenly he's being yanked away from the table. Washington shoves him hard, the momentum stopping abruptly when Hamilton's back hits the shadowed wall.

Washington looms in his space, a blaze of body heat. Forceful and fierce. Mouth so close it's like he's thinking about kissing Hamilton but hasn't quite decided to close the distance.

Hamilton thinks about fighting—thinks about the raw desire in Washington's voice a moment before—but he can't bring himself to do it. He's too terrified any resistance might make this _stop_ , and he won't take that chance.

He chokes on a surprised sound when Washington yanks the cord from his queue and lets Hamilton's hair cascade loose, messy about his shoulders. A second later and Washington's fingers are twisting in the strands, dragging Hamilton's head back—baring his throat for Washington's mouth. It's with deliberate and singleminded purpose that Washington closes on him, giving the other side of his throat the same possessive attention as the first. Sucking sharp bruises into his skin with the same patient, greedy focus.

Hamilton's eyes fall closed, and he groans when Washington's broad thigh slips between his legs. Washington presses up and forward, hard, and Hamilton can't help grinding down—arching his entire body closer—holding desperately on. He's breathing all manner of embarrassing sounds as Washington effortlessly holds him against the wall and works him over with that hot and unrelenting mouth.

Fresh vertigo leaves his head spinning a moment later, a rush of air and movement, something new and brutal in the strength of Washington's hands.

Hamilton lands hard on the floor. He bangs an elbow in just the right place to send a tingle of overloaded sensation along his arm, bruises his ass for sure. But he doesn't have time to focus on either of those things, because Washington is on top of him in an instant, shoving Hamilton down onto his back. There's bruising strength in Washington's grip as he wrenches startled legs apart and slots his body between Hamilton's thighs—grinds close even though they are both still frustratingly clothed.

Christ, Hamilton wants to be naked. He wants Washington's bare skin against him, Washington's impossible heat holding him down with nothing at all between them.

He arches beneath the general's weight, frantic for any friction he can get, greedy to be touched. Washington growls, twists his fingers once more in the tangled mess of Hamilton's hair and—fuck, _finally_ —kisses him. Hamilton doesn't care how uncomfortable the floor is beneath his back, or how his whole body jostles against the unforgiving floorboards as Washington ruts forward between his straining thighs. He bends his knees to either side of Washington's hips, as much to alleviate the strain as to allow him closer, and Washington bites at his lip before fucking his tongue into Hamilton's willing mouth.

Washington's free hand wraps around Hamilton's wrist, and he pins it hard against the floorboards. Immense strength, not at all measured or tempered, and Hamilton doesn't care. He doesn't even register the discomfort, twists his own free hand in the fabric of Washington's shirt and holds on.

The sound of the house's front door sends a shard of ice straight through Hamilton's arousal, and he freezes beneath Washington's hands and mouth. He expects Washington to freeze too, scramble off him before they're discovered.

But Washington must not have heard the door, because he doesn't relent. He makes no move to retreat, and that's—fuck, they can't be found like this. Hamilton breathes a terrified sound as he jerks his head to the side, breaking the kiss. He can't twist his captured wrist out of Washington's hold, but he _can_ shove hard at the general's chest with his free hand, wedge his arm between them.

"Stop," he hisses in a low voice as footsteps draw nearer in the hall. "Sir, _stop_ , there's someone here!"

But Washington doesn't stop. He grabs, twists, holds on even tighter. He's got both Hamilton's wrists pinned to the floor now, is kissing him again, only it doesn't feel like a kiss anymore. Too sharp, too angry, too much. Hamilton's heart is a terrified staccato in his chest as he tries and fails to wrench free, struggling now under Washington's weight, helpless beneath the strength holding him down.

Something is wrong. Hamilton understands this with a sudden and gut-deep certainty, because no matter what Washington said before—about holding him down, about letting him fight, about taking him anyway—this is different. He can hear the door latch now. The quiet click is loud as thunder in his pounding ears, and Washington _must_ hear it, too. Washington must hear it, and Hamilton is really fighting him now—hates how ineffectual his efforts are—and Washington _doesn't stop_.

The door swings open with an audible creak, and then quiet footsteps become a heavy rush. There's cursing in both French and English, and then sudden cool as Washington is yanked off of him and away. Hamilton scrambles up onto his elbows, scrambles back until his shoulders hit the wall. He stares as Washington struggles against the hands restraining him—Laurens and Lafayette—until one of them knocks the general hard enough in the head that he sags unconscious.

Hamilton presses his back against the wall behind him, and it takes everything he has not to hyperventilate as he sucks air into panicked lungs. He stares, first at Laurens, then at Lafayette—neither man seems able to look at him—and then a shift of movement draws Hamilton's gaze behind them to the open door.

Hamilton's brain stutters and fragments, and he nearly chokes on his next inhale. Confusion and mortification rise like bile at the back of his throat.

Washington himself stands in the doorway—upright, sturdy, impossible contrast to the unconscious general at Hamilton's feet.

Washington's face, usually so controlled and impassive, wears as eloquent an expression as Hamilton has ever seen. He looks like he's going to be sick. His eyes are locked on Hamilton with wounded horror, and when their gazes meet there's an awful stretch of silence where neither can look away.

Hamilton's voice is nowhere to be found. He's having a difficult time breathing, never mind finding air enough to speak, to explain—

To explain _what_ , exactly, he doesn't know. What excuse can he possibly give that will make any of this okay? He aches with disbelief and dismay, and with the slowly dawning realization that there's only one possible explanation. There are two George Washingtons in this room, and that's impossible, except. Hamilton performed a ritual, roused a magic artifact to life without knowing what it could do. Multiplying forces. It's the only thing that makes sense, little as it elucidates anything else.

 _Sir_ , Hamilton wants to say. _Sir, I'm sorry, it's not what it seems. Please don't look at me that way, please don't be angry with me_. But even if he could speak, there's no point. He won't lie to his general now.

It's a relief when Washington jerks his gaze away and strides forward to push Laurens aside. He takes John's place at the imposter's arm, and between the general and Lafayette they quickly brace the unconscious man and drag him upright.

"Let's take him upstairs," Washington says, stern and controlled. "Laurens, see to the colonel." Hamilton's heart gives a weak stammer at the deliberate distance in that voice. As if he needed further proof that his actions have broken something fundamental.

With a noisy scuffle of limbs, Lafayette and Washington are gone, hauling their unconscious cargo awkwardly up the narrow stairs. Leaving Hamilton and his racing heartbeat alone in the office with Laurens.

Laurens crouches beside him, expression pained and worried. It's enough to kick a roll of nausea loose in Hamilton's stomach, and he turns away rather than keep meeting his best friend's piercing stare.

"Are you all right?" John asks the question impossibly gently, and Hamilton's gut gives an unhappy clench. "How badly did he hurt you?"

Hamilton jolts, and he meets John's eyes despite his discomfort. "I'm not… why would he hurt me?"

Laurens just stares at him, not bothering to mask his disbelief. "Alexander, you don't have to defend him." A flash of shadows, of fearful anger, and suddenly John is staring at the floor instead. "I could tear him apart with my bare hands for what he tried to do to you. I'm— Fuck, I'm just glad we got here in time."

And with the distant delay of rolling thunder, Hamilton understands what Laurens actually saw. He didn't witness Hamilton pleading, clinging, moaning beneath his general's hands. John didn't walk in on a seduction; Hamilton was fighting when that door opened.

He wasn't begging Washington to touch him. He was begging him to _stop_.

Hamilton's eyes fall heavily closed and his chest shakes on an ugly, wounded laugh.

He pushes Laurens roughly aside so that he can rise to his feet—doesn't want help no matter how unsteady his legs feel beneath him. Humiliation burns alongside the guilt in his chest.

"I'm not hurt," he rasps through the tightness in his throat.

Laurens rises with a rustle of fabric, but thankfully keeps his distance. "Alexander…" John's voice is far too gentle, and Hamilton hates it.

"I'm _not hurt_ ," he snaps more sharply, not turning around. "He didn't— It wasn't as bad as it looked." This is as close as Hamilton will come to admitting that, up until they were interrupted, all he wanted was _more_. He aches from being thrown around, from being held too tightly, from the unrelenting strength in those broad hands. There's a faint throb at both his wrists telling him he'll be sporting a bracelet of bruises on both sides—his skin has always been embarrassingly easy to mark. But none of these things negates the fact that he wanted—still wants—Washington to touch him, in ways he should not want _any_ man.

Laurens eases around him to stand in Hamilton's line of sight. Determined and deliberate. When he raises tentative fingers to nudge Hamilton's hair back from his neck there's a moment before Hamilton remembers, he's earned a collection of bruises here too.

He takes a single step back, out of range, and John's arm drops to his side.

"I need to know you're okay," Laurens says with the same infuriating gentleness.

"I'm fine." Hamilton struggles to keep his voice even and persuasive. "They're just bruises." Bruises that wouldn't bother him at all under better circumstances. Bruises that he all but begged for. 

Sudden sharp anger crests behind his ribs, and Hamilton strides to the table. He stands perfectly still for several seconds, shivering in place, lost and hurt in ways that have nothing to do with his physical wellbeing. Before he even knows what he's doing, the violent roil of emotion propels him forward, and he's sweeping carefully stacked correspondence to the floor. The candles on the table shake, but they don't fall. Hamilton breathes a wordless growl that wants to be a scream as he upends his own work, a wounded tantrum that comes over him and then fades in a shattered instant.

He drops to his knees in the resounding silence that follows, raising both hands to his temples, twisting his fingers in the loose tangle of his hair.

John's hand on his shoulder isn't exactly welcome, but Hamilton lacks the energy to shake it off.

"The general saw," Hamilton chokes past the crush of feeling in his throat. "Fuck, he _saw me_." The real Washington saw… not everything, but too much. Hamilton on his back, helpless, legs spread for the imposter on top of him. Christ, Washington is never going to look him in the eye again.

"It wasn't your fault," Laurens says. It's a falsehood that cuts straight to the crux of the problem. If Hamilton were a more honest man, maybe he would try to explain just how untrue the reassurance is. But he's not, and he doesn't, and he shudders when Laurens kneels beside him to murmur, "Talk to me."

Hamilton smoothes his hair back along his scalp and drops his hands between his knees. "I can't fathom what you expect me to say." Then, because it's the only way he can think to shift the course of John's stubborn focus, he asks, "What happened? With the real general? How did you know there were two?"

"The night sentries found him at the edge of the woods, unconscious. By the time Lafayette and I arrived, he was awake, and adamant we needed to find you." Laurens gives a weighty shrug. "He didn't say why."

A fresh spark of puzzlement lights, faint but undeniable, wondering how Washington could have known his doppelgänger would come for _Hamilton_. A question without an answer. Hamilton lets it go.

"Come on," Laurens says into the uncomfortable quiet. "Let's get you a drink. You're sleeping in my bunk tonight." He blows out most of the candles on the table, taking in hand the smallest of the low-burning lot.

Hamilton considers protesting. He hates to be coddled. But a wordless moment later he simply stands and follows Laurens out the door, leaving the office a mess behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

The front door has long since slammed shut—loudly enough to be audible upstairs—by the time Washington's doppelgänger blinks groggily awake. Washington has had time enough to maneuver while waiting. He's cleaned the blood from his skin where his reflection struck him down. Tied the imposter securely to a sturdy chair, away from the room's sole window and the enormous mirror.

Locked the door.

Lafayette is in here with him, despite Washington's protests. Lafayette's arguments were too sound: the need for a witness in case the facsimile manages to get free; the potential need to overpower him again; the standard procedure for any interrogation, two officers present and working as a team.

Washington still wants this confrontation to be private. He wants to beat his reflection bloody for what he's done, and he can't do that with Lafayette standing at his side. The coiling inferno of rage inside Washington's chest isn't meant to be witnessed. Few have seen it, and Lafayette isn't among those few. That he is likely to bear witness now isn't enough to temper Washington's wrath, but it leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

On a more practical level—a guiltier level—Washington is a mess of trepidation. He needs to question this intruder, but he doesn't look forward to hearing what his reflection has to say. He relishes even less the idea of Lafayette hearing, too.

These are pointless worries. Lafayette is here. Lafayette wears a thin veneer of calm over his own quietly smoldering anger—he is close friends with Hamilton, after all—and the stubborn set to his shoulders makes it clear there's no point trying to send him away. Washington could force him from the room, lock him out, but to what end?

No. He will allow Lafayette to stay. He will simply have to trust in the young man's discretion.

Washington's double watches him in the unsteady silence. There's something not quite human in his face, a malice that dances in the shadows and candlelight, and Washington marvels that he didn't see it before. There's a twist to the familiar mouth, a mean spirited amusement simmering into the very air of the small room. It makes Washington's teeth ache, and he realizes he's clenching his jaw.

The molten core of his fury overflows, just for an instant, and Washington strikes the imposter hard across the face with a closed fist. The chair rocks, but stays miraculously upright. 

When the doppelgänger straightens in his bonds, he's grinning. There is blood on his teeth from a split lower lip.

"What are you?" The fire behind Washington's ribs transmutes to an almost unnatural sheen of ice across his words. Lafayette tenses visibly near the door, but Washington can't afford to think about him right now.

"You should know that, General." Still that smug grin, taunting him. "You summoned me. You and your Alexander."

Washington's spine stiffens, and he lands a backhanded blow before he can think better of it, before he can restrain himself. Knocking his prisoner's whole head to the side and earning a pained, pleased laugh. Washington's skin prickles and his face burns. _Your Alexander_. So much suggestion in his likeness's mocking tone. 

"You _do not_ speak of him," Washington says stiffly, coolly. "And you do not use his name."

"Will you hit me again if I do?" An arched eyebrow is all the emotion that accompanies the question. "We can call him something else if you prefer. Your boy? Your pretty aide? Your willing piece of—"

Washington doesn't hit him this time. He reaches forward and closes his fingers around his reflection's throat, squeezing hard enough to choke the words away. There's a crack in the intruder's unflappable resolve when Washington tightens his grip. Surreal to consider that he could crush his own windpipe. Ugly to realize how badly he wants to. He can feel Lafayette's eyes on him, wide and horrified, the young marquis right on the verge of interfering.

They won't get answers if Washington kills the imposter where he sits.

He lets go with a growl, retreating and forcing his arms to rest at his sides. His knuckles creak as he folds his hands into fists. He can barely see through the bloody rage clouding his vision.

"Sir." Lafayette's voice, quiet, concerned, careful.

Washington draws a single breath, ragged and long, and lets it out. He draws a second, steadier breath. A third and he can think again. He can see. He can continue this interrogation.

"Why are you here?" The ice is chipping from his voice, revealing the roiling heat beneath, but he keeps the question steady by force of will. "What is your purpose in this camp? Were you sent by the British to sabotage our forces?"

"Nobody sent me." The doppelgänger peers at him heavily. "You called for me. _You_. I wouldn't be here if your boy hadn't summoned me."

Washington barely keeps his fists at his sides and his distance from the prisoner's chair.

"And how do we get rid of you?"

His reflection grins. "Maybe you don't."

"Why did you attack Hamilton?" Lafayette interjects from his place across the room, and a feeling like panic rises in Washington's throat. He whirls, glares at Lafayette, but Lafayette is staring hard at their prisoner. And despite himself, Washington's eyes return as well. He finds the imposter staring back at him.

"Your general knows." That smooth tone is quiet and taunting.

"Sir?" Lafayette's voice sounds small and confused, but Washington doesn't turn to meet his eyes.

"Stop talking," he snarls at the man in the chair, but his doppelgänger only grins wider.

"You're jealous. You know I'm stronger than you." The voice is practically a purr now. "If _you_ won't take what you want, you should at least have let me finish with him."

Across the room Lafayette breathes a low sound of surprise, or maybe disbelief, but Washington barely hears it. His pulse is roaring too high in his ears, protectiveness gusting through him, igniting the white-hot embers of his fury. The idea that he might be upset simply because someone else got there first—it is monstrous, and it's not true. Bile creeps up the back of Washington's throat at the very thought of doing Alexander such harm.

There's no point denying the truth: he does want Hamilton. But not like this. Not the way this imposter is suggesting.

Not the way this imposter tried to take him.

The idea of anyone touching Alexander that way—hurting him—jars and fractures like a musket ball through Washington's heart, and this time when he strikes his reflection in the face the chair falls, taking its occupant to the floor. Wood clatters noisily alongside the heavier thud of a solid shoulder hitting the ground, and Washington doesn't care. He's going to tear this creature apart with his bare hands.

" _Sir_." Lafayette is there in an instant, putting himself in Washington's path, forcing him to stop. Washington could push past him—it wouldn't be difficult—Lafayette is slight, and Washington is stronger. But he stops at the wide sincerity in Lafayette's eyes, the plea in the hands trying to hold him back. He subsides with grudging reluctance, and Lafayette's hands fall aside.

The doppelgänger is laughing from the floor, and Washington's gaze swivels down to meet him. He doesn't ask what the man is laughing at. He doesn't want to know.

"You don't understand, do you?" The words are breathless and brutal. "How _easily_ you could have him. You're a coward and a hypocrite."

With Lafayette's guard down, Washington steps smoothly past to deliver a hard kick to the prisoner's stomach, earning a noisy curse and the sound of heaving.

"Watch him," Washington snarls as he turns his back on the chair to retrieve the small box that still guards the quietly glowing stone.

He unlocks the wooden chest, lets the heavy lid thud closed a moment later. He is cautious as he opens the little box, careful not to touch the stone as he unwraps the layers of cloth. The patterned surface pulses brighter than the last time he saw it, when he first watched Hamilton tuck it reverently away. There's a rhythm to the glow, an eerily perfect match for Washington's own quick heartbeat. A counterpoint to the rise and fall of his doppelgänger's chest where Washington can see him reflected in the silvery surface of the enormous mirror.

He should step back and think. He should send Lafayette to ask Hamilton about the stone, the journals, the ritual. He should wait until morning—until he has a clearer head—and not do anything rash.

Instead he tips the stone to the floor with a clatter and—in a gesture empty of reason—brings the heel of his boot down on top of it, as hard as he can. It shouldn't do anything at all. What match is a booted foot for a _stone_? But there's an audible crunch as the stone shatters beneath his weight.

Light surges all around, blinding and fierce, and the very house seems to shudder with a furious howl of wind.

There's a scream. Washington's voice, hurtling not from his own throat, but from the floor where the imposter contorts within his bonds. Washington can barely see through the flare of light. His heart clenches and spasms with pain like he's never experienced before, and he collapses to his knees, clawing at his waistcoat, desperate to dig the feeling out of his chest.

Stubborn hands take hold of his wrists, fighting his efforts. Washington _is_ screaming now. He can feel it in the way his lungs burn, the way his throat aches, the throb at the back of his skull. He squeezes his eyes tightly shut, doing his damnedest to curl in on himself as the wind shrieks past his ears.

It's an eternity before quiet and darkness return. Washington's head is still pounding painfully when he opens his eyes, but the inferno of agony in his chest has abated. He feels calm, if not necessarily peaceful. His knees ache from the fall and from the hard wood beneath them.

"Sir?" Lafayette kneels before him, still holding Washington's wrists with a strength born of fear. His eyes are impossibly wide and bright in the dim glow of the candle that has—miraculously—not gone out. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." Washington's voice is raspy and wrecked. He wonders what the soldiers bunked next-door will think, wonders if they will have woken, or if the tumult was contained enough to avoid interrupting the exhausted sleep of his men.

There's nothing for it. At least no one will jump to the correct conclusions, implausible as they are. Perhaps a fire, barely contained before it could spread. A plausible fiction, but he can't focus on that now. His head is still spinning uncomfortably when he twists to search for the chair and its captive.

The chair is empty, the ropes loose. Rope and wood alike are singed dark, as though they've been hastily pulled from a bonfire.

There's no sign of Washington's unnatural double. For a brief moment he wonders if there's some chance the imposter fled during the maelstrom, but he quickly dismisses the idea. There's a feeling in his chest too stark and certain for doubt. The doppelgänger is dead, perished with the stone.

"He's gone," Washington says with finality, answering the wordless question in Lafayette's eyes. "He won't be back."

"Good." Lafayette lets go and stands smoothly. He turns away from the chair, toward the mirror, and hisses a surprised sound through his teeth.

Washington isn't quite ready to stand, but he raises his eyes to see what has so startled the marquis.

His gaze lands on the mirror—on what's left of the mirror—the golden frame still glinting in the candlelight. The glass is splintered and shattered. A spiderweb of cracks fans across the surface, marring the mirror so completely that no reflection is visible in its depths.

Washington is glad. He'll have the frame melted down within the week. He'll never have to look at it again.

He blinks for a moment at the hand Lafayette holds out to him, but accepts the offer of help. His joints ache as he reaches his feet, his limbs trembling unreliably beneath his own weight. He can feel Lafayette watching him, but he keeps his own attention on the damaged mirror. Now that his body is calming, his mind is reconsidering every word spoken in this room tonight. He knows the marquis is no fool. Lafayette surely understands how much truth glints beneath the imposter's accusations.

"Your Excellency," Lafayette says. A quiet nudge, asking nothing specific but offering to listen.

Beneath the weight of his own mortification, Washington feels a burst of affection for the loyal young man. He wishes he could simply order Lafayette to forget everything he heard. Impossible to imagine what he thinks of Washington, now that he knows just how proprietary Washington's interest in Alexander Hamilton has grown.

Washington has no fear Lafayette will say anything to Hamilton—or to anyone else for that matter—but he finds he can't tolerate the thought of losing Lafayette's esteem.

His voice and throat feel tight when, still without turning, Washington says, "I'll consider it a kindness if you disregard everything you've seen and heard tonight."

Lafayette makes a muffled sound, mildly incredulous, but otherwise holds his peace.

"I know you and Hamilton are close," Washington says quietly.

" _Sir_." Lafayette's tone is audibly offended. "If you think I would divulge your secrets—"

"I know you would not," Washington interrupts, and Lafayette grudgingly subsides. "But I would also have you understand. I never intended to touch him. _Never_." This last word he breathes with vicious venom. His heart seizes miserably behind his ribs, and his jaw clenches, his fists tightening uncomfortably at his sides.

"That is obvious, sir."

Washington inhales slowly. "Is it?"

"Oui." Lafayette steps closer but makes no move to touch him, deferring to the forbidding line of Washington's shoulders. "I would not hold you in such high regard if I thought you the sort of man that… _monster_ tried to paint you."

"There was truth in what he said."

"Some," Lafayette concedes. "I had not realized you covet our little lion so." Washington shudders guiltily, and Lafayette's voice takes on a contrite edge. "Apologies, General. That was unkind."

"It was perfectly just." Washington speaks the words with difficulty. "And it doesn't matter. The damage is done, and it is none of it your fault."

"I think Hamilton will forgive you, sir. If he even realizes there is anything to forgive." Lafayette pauses—hesitates—then asks, "What will you say to him?"

Washington fends off a grainy wave of despair and admits, "I don't know."


	8. Chapter 8

The next morning is surreal. At breakfast Hamilton earns catcalls from fellow soldiers, who notice the telltale bruises scattering his neck and jump safely past any suspicion of what really happened, straight to more acceptable vices. He has his reputation after all. He's more than once stayed out all night in the company of women.

There's apparently nothing suspicious enough to earn him anything but dirty grins, and a couple of hands thumping between his shoulder blades in congratulation. The lace at his wrists covers the more eloquent markings, though even those would leave plenty of room for his fellows to interpret as they please.

The misunderstanding is a relief. It also leaves a bitter taste at the back of Hamilton's throat.

He doesn't say much, but he hears the strangest bandying of rumors all about him: a night broken by sounds no one can account for. Screams that might have been either howling wind or wolves. A shattering chaos in the air, sudden, over in moments. The accounts are scattered and confused, and most of the men are already chalking them up to nightmares and the strain of war.

Hamilton curses that John's tent was too far removed for him to witness anything.

The instant he sees Lafayette, between the canteen and the general's headquarters, he stops in the marquis's path. Makes sure there's no one close enough to overhear when he asks, "What happened? Is Washington okay?"

"Washington is fine," Lafayette answers softly. "His shadow is not." Then, without offering any more detailed explanation, "Are _you_ okay, Alexander?"

Hamilton hates the unmasked worry in Lafayette's eyes. He hates that the man saw him last night. He doesn't cherish the thought of anyone thinking him vulnerable.

"I'm fine." The answer is more clipped than he intends.

Lafayette arches a single meaningful eyebrow.

"I'm _fine_ ," Hamilton says with more vigor.

"I'm glad," Lafayette says. "I… hope you don't mind. I took the liberty of putting the office to rights before I slept. Your papers may not be in any correct order."

"Oh." Hamilton's face heats uncomfortably, and it's suddenly difficult to meet Lafayette's eyes. He'd managed to forget the mess he left in his wake when Laurens guided him out of headquarters last night. Careless. Though there was nothing inherently damning in the mess, it would've been one more piece of information that might inspire someone to look closer. "Thank you."

"Here." Lafayette's hand darts into a pocket, and a moment later presses pale fabric into his grasp. It's Hamilton's cravat—the one he's wearing now is a loan from Laurens.

Hamilton's skin warms even more deeply as he stuffs the crumpled fabric into his own pocket. He can't think of a single thing to say. His gaze falls to the trampled dirt between his boots.

"I must depart on an errand," Lafayette says even though Hamilton isn't looking at him anymore. "But I will find you later if you like."

"No." Hamilton manages a steady voice. "Thank you, my friend. That won't be necessary."

There's a beat of silence, a hand grasping tightly at his shoulder, and then Lafayette is gone. Leaving Hamilton to the imperfect quiet of the early camp morning. No one pays him any mind—everyone has their own duties to manage, including John Laurens with his troops to train—but Hamilton still feels exposed. He touches the cravat in his pocket and struggles to quiet the whirling speed of his own thoughts.

He tarries a long time at the edge of the path. He stays put until he can breathe at a normal speed, until his frantic mind is calmed enough for him to do the work his general requires.

He's late to headquarters. Usually the first of Washington's staff to arrive—the one with the key to open the work room in the first place—by the time he crosses the threshold now, the other aides are already seated along the table. Recording dispatches, reviewing reports, sorting the vital from the mundane. Everyone is focused and quiet, though more than one set of eyes glances curiously at him as Hamilton takes his seat. Of course they're wondering at his late arrival. It's literally never happened before.

Hamilton wonders if Washington is awake upstairs. Realizes belatedly that yes, of course he's awake. If Hamilton wasn't here to unlock the office, Washington must have done it. The thought shouldn't jar him back to distraction, but it does. His quill pauses above a fresh sheet of foolscap.

"Colonel Hamilton." Washington's voice from the door startles him so badly Hamilton almost upends his ink. He shivers, because he has been simultaneously dreading and aching for whatever is about to happen.

The other aides are staring at him, all wide eyes and stillness. It's obvious they think a rebuke is the reason for the stern edge to Washington's voice, but Hamilton knows better. Even if his general is angry with him—even if Washington blames him for bringing the imposter alive in the first place—he would not make it known like this. That's a different sort of control cooling Washington's voice, and Hamilton doesn't know what exactly waits behind it, but trepidation isn't enough to stop him being desperate to find out.

He sets his quill aside and rises from his chair. Turns at military attention and drops his chin in deference. "Sir. I'm sorry I'm late. It won't happen again."

Washington regards him for several moments of heavy silence, and Hamilton doesn't dare look at him.

Quiet authority suffuses the words when Washington says, "The rest of you, get out. Take a walk. A _long_ walk."

Everyone scatters, and Hamilton keeps his eyes on the floor, doing his best to look like he's about to be severely reprimanded. It wouldn't be the first time. Washington doesn't often clear his entire headquarters to deliver a tongue lashing to a subordinate, but it's happened before. To Hamilton more than anyone else. He never has known when to keep his mouth shut. People know to stay clear and count their blessings that the general's censure isn't directed at them. It will provide privacy for a time.

The front door closes at last, leaving the house empty but for the two of them. Hamilton holds his breath.

Washington steps farther into the room, though the distance he keeps is obviously deliberate. "What are you doing here, Hamilton?"

Hamilton blinks and raises his head, confused and surprised at the question. "I'm here to work, sir."

Washington is staring at him, guarded and deliberately unreadable. Despite the brightness of this morning's sky, the office is dim, lit by candles and what little sunlight sneaks past heavy curtains. Hamilton suspects that even with the advantage of broad daylight he wouldn't be able to read the general's expression. There's more than the usual stiffness to Washington's shoulders. A tic in his cheek tells Hamilton the general is clenching his jaw, and both hands are firmly clasped behind that broad back.

Even taut and on edge, Washington is a distracting sight.

"You shouldn't be here," Washington says at last, and Hamilton's heart clenches at the words.

"I'm your chief of staff," he protests. "I should _absolutely_ be here. We still have a war to win. You _need me_."

"Hamilton—"

"Sir, please, it's not—"

" _Hamilton_."

Hamilton's mouth snaps shut at the sharp reproach. The implicit command to silence. His spine vibrates with the need to keep talking, but he chokes back the urge, the excuses, the need to justify himself.

"You shouldn't be here today," Washington insists, soft and forceful. He's taken a position farther down the table, standing between empty chairs and touching a stack of correspondence Tilghman has been working on. "A day off isn't going to cost us the war. Even a little time away would—"

"I don't need time." Hamilton knows he should maintain the distance Washington has so carefully put between them, but he finds himself crossing the room in desperate strides, only stopping when he reaches Washington's side. "I need to do my job. You can't send me away." His voice is rising, and he doesn't care.

"I am commander in chief of this army," Washington counters grimly. He drops the paper with Tench's ungainly script and turns to look Hamilton heavily in the eye. "I can do whatever I deem necessary for the wellbeing of my troops. Especially in the case of an unruly soldier who refuses to admit he is hurt."

"They're just bruises!" The instant the words fly out of Hamilton's mouth, he wants to take them back. Washington visibly flinches, jerks his gaze elsewhere. Across the room, toward the empty wall between curtained windows.

There's nothing to see there, but that's obviously not the point. The point is he can't bear to look at Hamilton, and Hamilton's chest clenches tight with guilt.

"Sir…" He wants to apologize, even though he doesn't know how. He isn't entirely sure what he would be apologizing _for_. He knows only that something is fundamentally broken between them, and it burns at him that he doesn't know how to repair the damage.

"It's not my place to tell you how to deal with what happened," Washington finally says in a pained and awkward tone. "But time off _is_ appropriate. Medical attention is appropriate. And—"

Hamilton should bite his tongue when Washington cuts himself short. Instead there is audible mutiny in his voice when he presses, " _And_?"

Washington looks straight at him. "And I would be willing to consider a change in assignment for you."

Hamilton's heart nearly stops in his chest. Yes, he's chafed from day one at playing glorified clerk instead of being allowed to _fight_ , but what Washington is suggesting… Even if the offer comes with the battlefield promotion Hamilton has never stopped pleading for, he doesn't want it like this.

He won't let Washington reassign him when he belongs _here_ , at Washington's side, whether as an aide or a proper soldier. Implicit in Washington's suggestion is that he will send Hamilton _elsewhere_ , and that is not what either of them needs.

"I don't want a different assignment, sir," Hamilton announces, loudly and firmly. The tightness in Washington's shoulders strains to the point it looks painful, but Hamilton presses on. "I'm _your_ chief of staff. You can't just put me out of sight and think that will fix this!"

"For _God's sake_ , Alexander!" Washington thunders, the last sliver of his patience audibly snapping. He knocks Tilghman's chair to the floor before pressing his palms flat against the table, breathing hard, gathering himself. A moment later and he stands with his spine ramrod straight, rigidly tense.

Hamilton holds his breath. Impatient, warm from the sound of his name even in so angry a tone.

When Washington continues, it's pained and quiet. "You were assaulted by an intruder wearing _my face_."

Hamilton's gut clenches unhappily and he edges closer, despite the fact that Washington's body language says to stay the fuck away. "Sir, I'm _fine_." It's not entirely true, but near enough.

Washington turns, inclines his whole body towards Hamilton, and regards him with a lost expression. There's an uncomfortable mix of warmth and sadness in his gaze as it darts low and fixes in the vicinity of Hamilton's neck. It takes Hamilton a moment to realize what the general is looking at—that his focus is locked on the colorful bruising left by the imposter. Too many of the bruises show blatantly over the line of Hamilton's cravat, and with his hair drawn up in its queue there's no hiding them.

"It's not as bad as it looks," Hamilton says, soft and helpless. Washington's throat works in a pained swallow. When he finally looks Hamilton in the face again, his eyes are wet.

The sight takes Hamilton aback. In all their time trapped in close quarters, losing a war they cannot afford to lose, he has never seen the general cry. He's never seen him come close. To witness him on the verge of tears is alarming, and Hamilton gawps as his pulse kicks faster in his chest.

"… Sir?"

He honestly doesn't expect Washington to answer the inexpressible _what's wrong?_ he means to convey with that one word. But a moment later Washington visibly braces himself. And Hamilton knows that, whatever he's about to hear, it's going to be brutally and painfully honest.

"I saw the way you looked at me last night," Washington says. "You were shocked. You thought that— that— that _thing_ was really me. You thought I was the one holding you down on this floor."

"No." Hamilton shakes his head, urgent with denial. "Sir, it's not what you think."

"Isn't it?" Washington's expression is a mask of barely controlled agony. "You thought he was me. You thought _I_ could hurt you that way."

"He _wasn't hurting me_ ," Hamilton blurts in a rush of honesty so sharp he's surprised it doesn't cut his vocal cords to pieces. Fuck. _Fuck_ , he did not mean to admit this to Washington. But the things Washington is saying, the conclusions he's reaching—conclusions that look reasonable given the faulty evidence he possesses—are falsehoods Hamilton can't allow to stand. Not when he can see what they're doing to his general; when they're leading Washington to assume Hamilton thinks him capable of such an unpardonable crime.

Even now Washington is staring at him with bald disbelief. His expression says _don't patronize me young man, I wasn't born yesterday_.

"I know," Hamilton says, and the words _hurt_. God, they hurt, because he needs to keep going and he doesn't want to admit _any_ of this. "I know how it looked. I know you saw me… fighting him… I know I should have…" He's damn near hyperventilating, and he has to stop, has to breathe. He has to get this out. Washington may never speak to him again once he knows the truth, but at least he won't be carrying around the false and unsustainable notion that Hamilton thinks him a monster.

"Alexander, you don't need to explain yourself," Washington tries to protest into the momentary quiet, but Hamilton only shakes his head again.

"I do. I need to explain. I need you to _understand_ , sir, what you saw. It wasn't— It didn't start like that." Washington's brow is furrowed in confusion, but Hamilton forces his words forward. "He didn't attack me. He wasn't trying to— He didn't have to…" He's losing the thread again. Swallows hard and closes his eyes to start over. "When he touched me, I wanted it to be you."

Silence. Complete and perfect silence from Washington beside him. Hamilton doesn't dare open his eyes. He knows what he is admitting, how hazardous a confession it is. He isn't afraid Washington will order him punished, but Hamilton is uncomfortably aware of the potential consequences of this secret. This is a dangerous truth to put in another's hands. Even those of a man as honorable as Washington.

"I didn't tell him to stop," Hamilton presses on miserably. "I didn't _want_ him to stop. I should have. I should've known… You wouldn't."

The things the imposter said, Hamilton knew even then Washington would never talk to him like that. Washington would never hurt him, never threaten him—and the words _were_ a threat, no mistaking them in hindsight—but Hamilton wasn't thinking clearly last night. He should have listened to the voice of doubt instead of allowing it to be drowned out by exhaustion and more selfish instincts.

"I thought you wanted me, and I needed to believe it so badly, I didn't _think_." Hamilton gives a hopeless shrug and opens his eyes, staring at the floor instead of looking up at Washington. "When the door opened and he didn't stop, that's when I knew something was wrong. That's when I started to fight. Not before."

The quiet that follows his confession is painful and unbreakable. Hamilton's whole body trembles with the anticipation of not knowing what comes next. If Washington wants to be rid of him after all, this is the moment it happens. Dishonorable discharge, the end of Hamilton's military career, the end of all his hopes to rise to something greater. This is the moment everything shatters, and he won't be able to bear it.

"I'm sorry. Sir, I'm so sorry, please don't dismiss me from your staff," he begs without really intending to. "This is _my_ problem. Not yours."

"What problem is that, exactly?" Washington's voice is impenetrable, unreadable, stiff and measured.

Hamilton is still staring resolutely at the floor, at the scuffed toes of Washington's boots. _The problem that I'm in love with you and I can't do a damn thing about it_ , he thinks. It's the first time he's even faced the knowledge directly in his own mind. He's shaky with the force of it. He can barely breathe.

Out loud all he manages to say is, "The feelings I have. For you. I promise I won't let them get in the way of our work. They won't stop me from doing everything in my power to fight and win this war."

"Alexander, look at me," Washington says softly. And even though his voice is gentle again—even though the sound of his name in that voice is enough to turn Hamilton's knees to jelly—Hamilton can't obey.

He startles when Washington curls a finger beneath his chin and nudges upward. Not pressing so hard as to force the matter, but urging Hamilton to raise his head. Making it that much more difficult to disobey the request. Hamilton abruptly finds himself looking Washington directly in the eyes. There's no sign of the disgust he expects to find there, but he isn't sure what to make of the sharp glint he discovers instead.

"I didn't know," Washington says.

Hamilton doesn't bother pointing out that he wasn't _supposed_ to know. That Hamilton's lack of self control may be legendary, but he's not stupid. That just because he's too honest for his own good doesn't mean he's incapable of secrets.

Distracted as he is by his own riotous thoughts, he startles at the soft graze of Washington's fingers at his throat. He realizes belatedly that Washington is staring again, eyeing the collection of bruises, touching them. From the guilty way he jerks his hand back a moment later, he clearly did not intend to touch.

Hamilton's face warms and something inside him gives a dangerous twist. Washington is no longer saying awful things about time away and reassignments, and this… It can't be what it's starting to feel like. But they're still standing far too close together. And for all the tension in the air, neither one of them is taking a step back.

"It's all right." Hamilton raises a hand, touching his own throat self-consciously. "They don't hurt." He can feel them—skin oversensitive to the slightest contact—but it's a pleasant enough discomfort. Or at least, it _would_ be if it weren't a reminder of something so disastrous and ugly. Christ, the gutted look on the real Washington's face in that moment, the murderous ice in John's eyes, the wild worry emanating off Lafayette. The thrumming guilt of Hamilton's own poor judgment, and the painful understanding that his tampering with magic is what brought all this upon them.

"And those?" Washington nods toward Hamilton's wrist, where gravity has drawn away the lace of his sleeve and left the skin bare. Bracelets of bruises have darkened since last night, on both wrists, and Hamilton swallows hard.

"Those are… a little worse." His face heats, and it's all he can do to keep his voice steady when he admits, "but I still came by them honestly." And then, because apparently he _is_ stupid after all, he hears himself add, "And I don't think I would mind them at all if they came from you."

Washington sucks in a harsh breath, and for an awful instant Hamilton is certain he's said the wrong thing. Brazen and foolish, exactly the opposite of the promise he just made, that he would not make his feelings Washington's problem. 

But it's too late to take the words back, and Hamilton braces himself.

"I shouldn't have said that."

"No," Washington agrees grimly. "You shouldn't have."

"I'm sorry." But Hamilton knows he doesn't sound sorry enough. He's always been honest to a fault.

"Did you mean it?" Washington asks. The question is the absolute last thing Hamilton expects, but it seems earnest. Washington is watching him with piercing eyes. Sizing him up. Gauging him with visible and unaccustomed care.

Hamilton's heart beats faster. "Of course I meant it. I always say what I mean." It's the reason he's a shitty diplomat and an excellent soldier.

Washington steps closer even though there is already too little space between them, angling his body so that he is effectively backing Hamilton against the edge of the table without actually touching him. Crowding close with an unmistakable aura of uncertainty. They're sharing each other's air, sharing the warmth of proximity. Hamilton stares up into Washington's eyes, not quite daring to believe the shift in the quiet between them.

"I need you to be perfectly clear with me." Washington's hand rises once more to Hamilton's throat, a light and cautious touch, fingertips brushing the underside of his jaw like an afterthought. "What do you want, Alexander?"

" _Sir_." Hamilton's palms are pressed flat to the table behind him, his breath uneven as need bubbles up in his chest.

"To touch you would be an unforgivable breach of trust, and of my responsibilities as commander of this army. If I had any honor at all, I would not consider this." Before Hamilton's heart can seize up too painfully at those words, Washington continues, "But I _am_ considering it. So you need to tell me. What do you want?"

Hamilton knows what he _should_ say. Tell his general to stop. Swear that he doesn't need this, doesn't need Washington to compromise himself or his code of honor. But Hamilton is too selfish to do any such thing when Washington is looking at him like this.

"I want you to kiss me," he breathes, ragged and honest. "And I want you to bed me." He thrills with hope at the way Washington's eyes widen at his words. "And then I want you to let me do my goddamn job, because this doesn't change anything. We still have a war to win."

Washington stares at him for a long, _long_ time. Absorbing the words. Thinking it through. Not touching Hamilton beyond the place his gentle fingers still ghost against the bruise-sensitized line of Hamilton's throat. But he makes no move to retreat, and Hamilton holds his breath against a wild surge of hope.

Finally Washington nods. "Okay." Then leans down and curls his hand around Hamilton's jaw, closing in for a tentative and careful kiss.

Tentative and careful aren't what Hamilton needs. But he tempers his own impatience, tilts his head at the nudge of Washington's hand, enjoys the soft press of warm lips. Hamilton's own hands rise from the table to brush against Washington's broad chest, and he shivers at the feel of hard muscle beneath fabric. Eagerness pulses in his blood when Washington settles a palm at the small of his back. Washington's fingers splay at the base of his spine, holding him close despite how chaste the kiss remains.

When Washington's mouth releases him, Hamilton opens his eyes—he doesn't remember closing them—and finds Washington peering down at him with too much gentleness. It's with almost no thought that Hamilton smiles and says, "You can do better than that, sir. I won't break."

The gentleness fractures, leaving a surge of wild heat in its wake. This time Washington's kiss is relentless and forceful, greedy in a way that makes Hamilton's blood sing. Washington's hands are not so gentle on him now, and a moment later they grasp at Hamilton's thighs and hike him smoothly up onto the table. Hamilton balances there on the edge, tugging Washington towards him, spreading his legs to allow the general to press close. He doesn't want any space between them.

Washington's tongue in his mouth is eager in its explorations, twining alongside Hamilton's own, claiming hungrily. Hamilton moans into the kiss, and it's a desperate sound. He twines an arm across Washington's shoulders, clinging hard, frantic to keep him right where he is.

The sound of the house's main door opening jars them apart, scatters them and ends the kiss in an instant. There are footsteps in the foyer, but Washington is already halfway across the room. Hamilton slides off of the table, turns his back to the door—he's hard, _fuck_ —and he braces both hands on the table, willing his arousal away. Prays Washington has better control than him.

"Is everything all right?" Washington asks in a voice that gives away nothing at all.

"Oui, General," Lafayette's voice answers from the open doorway, and Hamilton sags with relief. He doesn't want Lafayette knowing what he just walked in on, any more than he would welcome any other witness, but at least he doesn't need to guard himself quite so completely. Lafayette knows enough not to find it strange that he's interrupted general and aide in a moment of awkward silence. "Please forgive the intrusion. Your staff grow restless. They wish to know if they may return to their work."

Hamilton barely resists the manic burst of laughter threatening to bubble up in his chest. He can feel Washington's eyes on him, Washington's silence willing him to behave.

Eventually Washington says to Lafayette, "Yes, they can come back to work. Will you tell them?"

"Of course, sir." Then Lafayette is gone, and the house is empty once more but for them.

_You could have said no_ , Hamilton wants to protest, but he doesn't. Because it isn't true. Disappointed as he is at the interruption, he knows full well they can't continue here, in broad daylight, with the whole camp busy around them. There is work to do, and they can't afford to be reckless.

He's not sure what to say—not sure if he should say anything at all—and is relieved when Washington draws close and speaks in a soft voice.

"Tonight. Return after everyone else retires. We'll continue this conversation more discreetly."

Hamilton shivers. "Yes, sir," he says as Washington steps away.

A moment later Washington is gone, and the door to headquarters bangs noisily open as the other aides return from their brief exile. They all throw Hamilton concerned glances, sympathy for the stern rebuke they think he suffered in their absence. Tench especially looks wary and worried as he rights his fallen chair and sits down. Hamilton ignores them all and settles into his own chair, taking up his quill.

Too many hours separate him from the satisfaction he craves, but Hamilton is determined to make them productive.


	9. Chapter 9

For the rest of the day, Washington removes himself entirely from his headquarters.

In theory there are duties he should oversee directly, but he trusts Hamilton to handle anything truly urgent in his absence. The boy _has_ been forging Washington's signature for months. In any case, Washington doesn't leave camp. Just keeps himself busy with surprise inspections, extra drills among the troops, personally seeing to the regiment's dwindling stores.

He keeps moving, because if he slows down or stops he will inevitably start to _think_. And if he allows his mind any leeway, he knows perfectly well where it will land.

Hamilton.

Hamilton beneath his hands. Willing—eager and impatient—making no effort at all to mask his disappointment at Lafayette's interruption. Hamilton's dark eyes peering through him with overwhelming honesty. Hamilton drawing him close and pleading for more.

Washington has no right to accept what the boy is offering. Alexander is a soldier. Poor. Without connections, no future but the one he seems determined to build for himself. Washington is a married man. Commander in chief of the entire rebel army. A monster and a hypocrite. He has _no right_.

But he is not strong enough to deny himself this.

_I want you to kiss me. And I want you to bed me._

Washington is no saint to refuse such a plea.

After the dinner hour, he retreats to his private quarters and paces, paces, paces. He doesn't care if his aides below wonder what is troubling him.

It never occurs to him to doubt Hamilton will come. The evening passes slowly, an untenable eternity, but there's no changing course now. There's nothing to do but wait as the sunlight vanishes from the tiny, dirt-smudged corner of sky visible through his window, as the noise below slowly fades and dwindles. Washington's door is open, so he hears the low thud and quiet clink of the door locking as the last of his aides depart the office. Tired voices, including Hamilton's, as they disappear into the open night, followed by the heavier slam of the house's front door.

It's nearly an hour later that Washington hears the front door open again, quieter this time. Closing just as softly. Then footsteps mounting the stairs and crossing the landing.

Hamilton appears in the open doorframe, a vision of determination. He carries no lantern. His eyes are bright as he steps across the threshold, and the contours of his face are cast in sharp contrast by the room's sole candle. He closes the door behind him, secures it with the same key as the office downstairs, and leaves the key in the lock. Neither man speaks.

When Hamilton turns to take in Washington and the rest of the room, he freezes in visible startlement. Washington knows what's caught his attention without turning around to look.

"What happened?" Hamilton takes a single step farther into the room, still staring at the spider-webbed glass of the mirror.

"It shattered when I destroyed the stone," Washington says. Then, more softly but with a pulse of fire, "When I killed him." Considering the ritual, it makes sense all three were tied together—doppelgänger, stone, mirror—and the mirror is acceptable collateral damage as far as Washington is concerned.

He half expects Hamilton to protest the stone's destruction. He wouldn't put it past the boy to want a second chance at the ritual.

But Hamilton just jerks his gaze from the mirror and asks, in an impossibly small voice, "Did he say anything? Was he… Was I wrong? _Was_ it a trap?" So many undercurrents of feeling echo beneath those questions, fear and guilt the loudest of them all. 

A fierce protectiveness rises in Washington's chest in answer. He aches to go back and make different decisions. He would prevent Hamilton from experiencing last night, with all its confusion and fear. With all its hurt. Because of course the boy is hurt. Hamilton can protest all he wants that he's fine—that he sustained only bruises that will quickly fade—but there are plenty of ways to hurt beyond the physical.

Hamilton is still staring at him, waiting for reassurance.

"He wasn't an agent of the British," Washington says at last. It's the only sure answer he can give. "We created him ourselves. You in casting the spell, I in touching the stone."

Hamilton blinks, eyes widening. "You touched the stone?"

"I did." Washington has had hours to consider the ritual and his own part in it; to sort out why he alone was recreated by the magic Hamilton unleashed. With the stone destroyed, they'll never know what might have happened if he hadn't touched it. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps a better result. Perhaps disaster on an even larger scale. There's no point wondering. The stone is gone, and Washington is not sorry to have destroyed it. They will have to find some other way to win this war.

"Then it wasn't coincidence that the ritual chose you. But…" Hamilton pauses. Considers. The candlelight and confusion make his face look even younger than his far too few years. "But he _wasn't_ you. Even though he looked the same. Sounded the same. He was nothing like you."

"Wasn't he?" Washington forces himself not to flinch.

Hamilton's face flushes so fiercely the heat is visible even amid flickering shadows. "He said things you would never say," Hamilton admits in a tone of shame-tinged quiet. "Things I should have known you wouldn't… It doesn't matter. He _wasn't you_."

They lapse into a taut and mutual silence, and Washington wonders what Hamilton is thinking. He wonders what shameful, traitorous words his reflection whispered in Hamilton's ear. He wonders how his own greedy desires might have twisted in a mind without any pretense of honor. Hamilton's explanation, his confessions of complicity, don't negate the unavoidable conclusion Washington has reached: his doppelgänger intended to take the boy, willing or not. That Hamilton didn't try to fight sooner bought them time, but it doesn't change what Washington knows.

It is an ugly thing, to wonder if that unforgivable selfishness lives inside him somewhere. He is incapable of committing such a crime. But would his double have tried, if the kernel of potential didn't exist? Are the liberties Washington even now intends to take not equally selfish?

He shakes the thought away. He could drive himself mad with such questions.

Hamilton is watching him with an expression that understands far too much, and Washington draws his posture straighter to ask, "Are you sure about this, Alexander?"

They've both been holding back, hovering at opposite sides of the small room. Undeniable tension stretches between them. If Washington were listening to his hungriest instincts, he would already have Hamilton naked on his back instead of discussing less pleasant things.

But this isn't about what _he_ wants. It's whether Hamilton truly understands what he's offering, the intimacies Washington aches to claim. It is, even more importantly, about whether Hamilton truly wants this—still wants _him_ —despite everything that's happened.

" _Sir_." Hamilton sounds genuinely affronted at Washington's question.

"You're entitled to change your mind. You owe me nothing."

"Maybe." Hamilton's piqued pride visibly softens, and he gives a hesitant smile. Eases forward, farther into the room. Nearer to where Washington stands at stiff attention. "But you owe _me_ a great deal tonight. You promised to take me to bed."

"I made no such promise." Washington's eyes narrow even as he allows Hamilton's words to ease his rigid posture. Hamilton edges closer, and this too helps calm the anxious hum of guilt.

"Well. You should have." Hamilton is close enough to touch now, stopping just before him. An instant's pause and then Hamilton raises one hand and sets his palm over Washington's heart—looks at it for a moment before raising his head.

For all the confidence in Hamilton's words, there's something less certain in his eyes. Unsteady, quiet, pleading, hopeful. A handful of heartbeats is all the time that passes before Hamilton rises onto his toes to press a kiss to Washington's mouth.

Washington isn't strong enough to stand by like he should and let Hamilton guide the kiss. He takes quick control, twining one arm about Hamilton's waist to crush him close. Washington's other hand curls at the nape of his neck, tilting his head farther back, a better angle at which to claim that willing mouth.

When they part, Washington doesn't let go. He noses beneath Hamilton's jaw and presses a lingering kiss to his throat, enjoying the rabbit-fast heartbeat beneath his mouth, ignoring the warmth of bruises he did not put there. He feels a surge of giddiness, of delicious power, when Hamilton breathes a low gasp of pleasure at the sensation.

Hamilton sounds breathless and overwhelmed when he says, "Sir, please— Tell me what you need."

Washington stifles a groan against hot skin, biting at the sensitive spot beneath Hamilton's jaw. Claiming a place of his own where Hamilton already wears so many bruises Washington wishes he'd been the one to bestow. Perhaps he and his double were not so different after all.

And of course Hamilton is asking what _Washington_ needs, as though even in this he intends to defer to his general. The loyal soldier. Martyr in the making. Washington refuses to use the boy that way. He _will not_ make this about what he wants.

"Tell me, Alexander. How many men have touched you this way?"

He doesn't ask how many women. The truth is he doesn't want to know how many people his Alexander has bedded, can't ignore the irrational surge of jealousy at the thought. But men… Washington needs to know. He needs _some_ idea how experienced the boy is.

But instead of answering, Hamilton stills in his arms. Silence is always suspicious when Alexander Hamilton is involved, and Washington straightens to his full height without letting go, peering down at him. Hamilton's spine is a line of rigid heat beneath his palm. When Hamilton tries to duck his head, Washington crooks a finger beneath his chin and forces his head back. Forces eye contact.

"Answer the question, my boy."

Hamilton shivers against him, swallows heavily. "One."

Washington's chest stills, air freezing in his lungs.

Now that Hamilton is talking of course—now that the dam is broken—he can't seem to stop. "That is… last night. But other than him I haven't… There's been no one else. I never wanted to, before you. Not like this, not… Not badly enough to _do_ something about it. I've only been with women."

Washington's whole body is still as a stone now. Hamilton is staring at him with wide, honest eyes.

"Sir, please don't stop."

And lord, if Washington needed further proof that he shouldn't do this, here it is. He is already far too aware that he's taking advantage. Hamilton is no mere boy, but in this at least he is innocent. Inexperienced. And Washington _should not touch him_.

But Washington is already touching him. And even without the plea in Hamilton's voice urging him on, he would not be able to stop now.

There's something bright and honest in Hamilton's face, broadcasting just how terrified he is that Washington is going to change his mind—rebuff him now that they've come this far—and Washington leans down to kiss the uncertainty away. Hamilton is so alive beneath his hands. Clinging with unashamed desperation, welcoming the possessive sweep of Washington's tongue, breathing such quiet and helpless sounds that Washington is half out of his mind already.

He breaks from the kiss to murmur, "Tell me what _you_ need, Alexander."

Hamilton shivers and ducks his head beneath Washington's jaw, curls close as though collecting the tattered edges of his self control. His breath is warm on the skin above Washington's collar, his fingers clenching tightly in the general's waistcoat. When Hamilton withdraws far enough to _look_ at him again, he seems nearly collected. It's a thin but endearing facade.

"I need you out of this uniform," Hamilton says in a voice that sears Washington to his soul. "Let me see you." It's more plea than order, but there's no refusing the urgency coursing beneath.

Washington has to let go of Hamilton to comply. He undresses with military efficiency, intensely aware of Hamilton's eyes following his every movement. Unmasked hunger flashes in dark eyes, and Washington's heart beats harder and faster in his chest. It is downright dangerous how good that sharp focus makes him feel.

When he's naked—too inflamed to be cold, desperate to touch Hamilton again, cock hardening impatiently—he forces himself still beneath Hamilton's greedy scrutiny.

He stands still as long as he can bear to—about twenty seconds—before he hears himself growl, " _Come here_ , for God's sake."

Hamilton approaches with heartening speed, and Washington moves to intercept. Washington's hands are impatient on the jacket of Hamilton's uniform, shoving it from his shoulders. Hamilton helps, shrugs free of the fabric and lets it fall to the floor as Washington turns his attention to cravat and waistcoat.

By the time he has Hamilton naked, Washington's blood is a wildfire, feverish with the need to touch.

He's not expecting Hamilton to drop to his knees right there before him. For a moment Washington genuinely can't breathe. His chest tightens at the perfect sight. Hamilton is peering up at him, challenge and offer in his eyes, naked skin impossibly smooth in the candlelight. Hamilton's cock is flushed hard. His knees spread wide on the hardwood floor.

And oh, Washington was _not_ going to ask for this, but he will take it. He's lost track of how many times he's imagined putting Hamilton's tireless mouth to other uses.

Hamilton edges closer and braces his palms against Washington's thighs. He looks up like a goddamn coquette, like he knows exactly what this position is doing to his general. And of course he does, the incorrigible imp. Of course no amount of practical inexperience is going to make him less precocious or clever. But Hamilton is also waiting as if unsure this is allowed—unsure this is what Washington wants—ceding all power and control without a word.

Washington reaches out to trace his fingers along Hamilton's jaw, drag his thumb across Hamilton's lower lip. Hamilton's mouth opens at the touch, and he takes his hands off Washington long enough to yank his queue loose. He shakes his long hair out so that it brushes his bare shoulders, deliberate and enticing, as he sets his hands once more to Washington's skin.

_Show me_ , Hamilton's eyes plead. And God help him, Washington does.

He slides his fingers through soft strands to curl his palm around the delicate curve of Hamilton's skull. Waits a heartbeat, then presses him forward—gentle but inexorable—toward the straining length of Washington's cock.

And God— _fuck_ —Hamilton's unpracticed mouth is everything and more. Better than any fantasy Washington has entertained. Hamilton is too eager, tries to take too much, but he barely retreats at all when he chokes on the thick length. Stubborn. Tries again, hollows his cheeks with suction, licks and teases and opens his throat.

He manages to take Washington deeper this time, but still gags when he overreaches.

"Slow down, Alexander." Washington gentles him not just with the words, but with a touch of fingers carding through Hamilton's hair, steady and steadying. Careful. "There's no rush." He spreads his feet wider to better brace himself, as Hamilton hums around him and ducks his head to take more anyway. Christ, that perfect mouth is almost too much. Washington aches for release, feels it coming on faster than he is ready to be finished.

" _Stop_ ," he orders. His touch goes harder as he pulls Hamilton back. His cock is still diamond hard as it slides from Hamilton's reddened lips.

"Sir?" Worry crinkles Hamilton's brow, and he sounds winded and helpless. "Did I do something wrong?"

Washington's expression softens, a wild surge of affection overwhelming him.

"Of course not, my boy. Come here." His hands are already guiding Hamilton to his feet and tugging him close. Washington kisses him again, and it's better like this. Naked skin, naked heat, nothing at all between them. _This_ is what Washington needs.

He doesn't bother trying to find words, guides Hamilton by touch instead. When the backs of Hamilton's thighs hit the high mattress, Hamilton breaks from the kiss to give him a wild and uncomplicated smile. An instant later and Hamilton hops onto the bed without prompting, shifting back to spread himself lengthwise atop the rough-spun blankets—spreading his legs with only the faintest hint of self-consciousness. Blatant invitation.

Beautiful.

Washington hesitates beside the bed, breathless at the view. The impossible fact that he actually gets to have this—that Hamilton is his to possess—is _in his bed_. Washington still can't believe it.

When he lingers too long, some of Hamilton's confidence fades behind the darker stain of a blush across his cheeks and chest, visible even in the faint candlelight. The blush only makes him more beautiful, contrasting with the bruises along his throat. When Hamilton shifts as though to close his legs—self-consciousness giving way to misplaced modesty—Washington touches his knee to stop him.

Hamilton meets his gaze, questions burning behind his eyes, and Washington drops to his knees without further delay. He covers Hamilton's body with his own, crushes him against the mattress. Kisses him and slips between Hamilton's parted thighs. He thrills at the feeling of nimble hands clinging to him, and of knees bending to either side of his hips, as Hamilton's legs spread wider to accommodate him. He bites back a moan at the hot, slick drag of Alexander's arousal alongside his own, as Washington ruts thoughtlessly forward.

His fingers are grasping too tightly at Hamilton's thighs, and he knows he will leave careless bruises behind. He doesn't care.

No, he realizes. He _does_ care. He wants to leave behind proof that Hamilton is his. Alexander is already wearing someone else's claim in his skin, and when Washington faces tomorrow morning, he wants to do it knowing Hamilton wears bruises that belong to _him_. He holds on even tighter as these thoughts coalesce, and Hamilton groans into a renewed kiss, arches helplessly beneath him.

It takes every scrap of Washington's inner strength to draw back far enough to seek a different position. He urges Hamilton onto his side so that Washington can press warm along his back, chest to spine. He presses a kiss to Hamilton's bare shoulder. Brushes long hair aside to kiss the frantic pulse at his throat.

Hamilton shivers against him. "Sir, I couldn't find… I didn't bring anything to—"

"I know." Washington's mouth presses the words into Hamilton's impossibly hot skin. It should be ridiculous, but of course Hamilton somehow knows the practical workings of intimacy between men. There's no subject under heaven the boy _hasn't_ studied. "That's not what I want from you tonight."

Another time—another night—maybe. They _will_ find themselves here again. Washington will never be able to walk away now, knowing Alexander is his for the taking.

"Sir?"

"Like this," Washington murmurs, sliding his hand from the sharp cut of Alexander's hip to the softer line of his thigh. He presses down, urging him to hold his legs tightly together. Then Washington takes himself in hand and guides his cock, slick from Hamilton's mouth—and from his own seed, copious near the moment of release—into the tight space between.

Washington ruts forward into perfect heat, cock sliding beneath the smooth curve of Hamilton's ass, riding between his thighs. His breath punches out of him in a rough groan, and he slides his arm beneath that willing body, wrapping tightly around Alexander's narrow waist to hold him in place, hold him close, hold him _still_.

Hamilton melts against him, breathing gone shocky and uneven. One hand falls to Washington's arm and clings, fingers curling tight.

A moment only is all it takes before Washington drapes his other arm over Hamilton's side and reaches for him, wrapping his hand around Hamilton's cock as Washington fucks roughly forward, the force of his thrust jostling the warm body in his arms. And yes, god, _yes_ this is exactly what he needs.

Hamilton cries out, head falling back against Washington's chest, eyes closing as he bares his throat without thought. The boy's free hand is clutched tight at the edge of the thin pillow, his whole body taut with restless energy. He ruts forward into the tight circle of Washington's fingers, then slides back, riding the slick length of the cock between his thighs. Fucking _beautiful_. An angel debauched. Washington's chest aches with an influx of feeling, even as he struggles to will back his own completion as long as he can.

"That's it," Washington breathes into the crook of Hamilton's shoulder. "Just like that, I've got you." He swipes his thumb across the head of Hamilton's cock, then strokes his whole hand down. Firm and unrelenting.

" _Fuck_." Hamilton comes with that one ragged syllable, spilling across Washington's stroking fingers.

Washington eases him through it before grasping even more tightly at Hamilton's hip, speeding his own pace, frantic and hungry and desperate to reach his release.

Washington falls abruptly still, pressed flush along Hamilton's back, and groans as he spends between Alexander's thighs.


	10. Chapter 10

Hamilton is restless in the quiet that follows.

In fairness, Hamilton is _always_ restless. There's a reason he's constantly at work, a reason he so often foregoes sleep in favor of continuing his own studies. Even here in Washington's bed—in the possessive circle of strong arms—he finds it impossible to be entirely still.

At least Washington doesn't seem to mind the way Hamilton keeps touching him in the warm and sated silence. They lie pressed close together, chest to chest, Hamilton's head tucked beneath Washington's jaw. Hamilton's fingers trace aimless paths along Washington's throat, his collarbone, his intimidatingly muscled shoulder. Washington, for his part, lies so still—breathes so steadily— that Hamilton wonders if he's fallen asleep.

He stops wondering a moment later, when Washington presses a lingering kiss to his temple. The show of unguarded affection makes Hamilton's chest feel tight and hot, and it takes him a moment to breathe again.

"Are you all right, my boy?" Washington's smooth baritone brushes his skin, and Hamilton shivers. _My boy_. It's what Washington has _always_ called him, but it's different now. Better. Intimate. How is Hamilton supposed to keep from showing all his secrets on his face, when Washington calls him that from now on?

"Yes." Hamilton scoots back just far enough to meet Washington's eyes. He's warm beneath the bedclothes, clean and comfortable and sharing Washington's heat. He's not sleepy. His body is too primed, hot with energy despite his fatigue.

There are a hundred questions in Washington's eyes, but the general doesn't give them voice. He meets Hamilton's wordless gaze. Makes no protest when Hamilton's wandering fingers trace higher, ghosting along his jaw, his cheekbones, his surprisingly soft mouth. Hamilton brushes his thumbs over the thick, perfect arches of dark eyebrows, and Washington allows that, too.

When Hamilton finally lets his touch fall away, Washington captures his hand and draws it close. Presses a kiss to the soft pulse point at Hamilton's wrist. Lingers there. Hamilton doesn't know why the gesture makes his heart race. He wonders if Washington can feel the frantic rush of his heartbeat beneath the skin.

Even when Washington draws back, his eyes are on Hamilton's wrist. On the bruises he did not put there. And Hamilton knows they're both thinking of the imposter, even before the general speaks.

"I would kill him again, a hundred times over, for touching you."

Hamilton shivers at the possessive growl that turns the statement to gravel. He doesn't want to think about the imposter, or about the jarring and terrible moment he realized his mistake. He doesn't want to think about just how wrong his attempt at magic truly went, how much worse the consequences could have been.

He stretches up to kiss Washington, pure diversion. Washington allows the kiss, takes command of it, presses close and eager and rough. Hamilton doesn't think either one of them has a second wind in them tonight, but the heat of Washington's kiss makes him wish otherwise. He wishes they could go again. He wishes he could stay until sunrise, instead of returning to his tent while it's still dark, to be teased and hassled by his fellow aides for his tomcatting ways.

When Washington withdraws, he places another kiss to Hamilton's forehead before settling once more beside him. Washington's expression is warm in the flicker of candlelight.

They should extinguish the candle—army resources are stretched too thin as it is—but Hamilton does not want to. He wants to be able to _see_ Washington. Savor what he can before he's evicted into the chilly night.

Impulsively, he catches Washington's hand in his own and twines their fingers together. It's Washington's left hand. The general's wedding ring is smooth and warm to the touch, and Hamilton can't help himself. He fusses with the band, turning it on Washington's finger. He raises their hands above the edge of the blankets so he can see the glint of gold in the candlelight.

Washington is watching him, silent and curious.

Hamilton swallows, but he doesn't try to speak. What can he possibly say? Washington is a married man. He's made no vows to Hamilton, has kept no secrets save the fact of wanting this in the first place.

"Martha is a good woman. And a good wife," Washington says, and Hamilton's grip tightens reflexively around his fingers.

He tenses, hating that he feels like he's been slapped when the words are nothing but truth. A simple and straightforward truth that Hamilton knew long before he began to fantasize about his own place in Washington's bed. Hasn't he listened to Washington dictate enough letters home to recognize the genuine affection between husband and wife?

"I won't ever lie to you, Alexander." The words aren't an apology, but they're something. An explanation. A promise in their own way. Washington admitting that he cares for Hamilton too much to string him along with false pretenses.

"Will you lie to her?"

"No."

Hamilton jerks his gaze from their hands to stare at Washington's face in shock. He can't believe how calmly Washington has spoken, or how steadily he meets Hamilton's eyes.

"You're going to tell her. About _this_. About everything we've done."

"Eventually." There's a crack in Washington's calm. "When the war is over."

Hamilton can't imagine having such a conversation. He would far prefer to _keep_ a secret so hurtful. After all, he has already taken something that doesn't belong to him. What good can come of honesty when the harm is already done?

But he doesn't doubt the truth in Washington's words. This is no bluff. Washington _will_ confess all this to Martha, and then what?

Hamilton swallows and lets go of Washington's hand, curls his whole body closer. He tucks himself once more against Washington's chest and doesn't breathe until he feels reassuring arms enclose him again.

"Do you think she will forgive you?" Hamilton asks, genuinely curious. Dubious. If Washington belonged to him—a laughable daydream—he doubts he could find it in himself to forgive or to share.

"I don't know," Washington admits. There's raw honesty in the words. "Maybe. Given enough time." A pause, a quiet exhale that ruffles the mussed hair on top of Hamilton's head. "It's difficult to consider the future when everything is…"

"I know," Hamilton breathes when Washington trails off. How can one consider the future when death lurks around every corner? The war is necessary, its aspirations glorious, but it is also ugly and dangerous. Their entire army could be wiped out tomorrow, and them with it. Washington hanged for treason, his staff likely sentenced to the same painful end. It's a sobering thought, and one Hamilton is quick to push from his mind.

"What about you?" Washington asks softly.

Hamilton's brow furrows. "What _about_ me?"

"Will _you_ forgive me?" The guilt in Washington's voice is suddenly overpowering. It's too much. It _hurts_. And Hamilton twists in the general's hold, arches up for a needy kiss.

He misses Washington's mouth in his haste, has to readjust and try again. He has better luck the second time when Washington meets him halfway. He frames Washington's face with his hands, shifts his weight. He rearranges them both in the bed until Washington is on his back and Hamilton can scramble top of him. He straddles Washington's hips without breaking the kiss, thrilling at the fingers that stroke through his hair, the palm that spreads flat at the base of his spine to steady him.

He draws back when the need for air is too much, bracing one arm against the pillow beside Washington's head. His other hand rests over the powerful beat of Washington's heart, and Hamilton takes comfort in the steady rhythm.

"The only thing I won't forgive is if you try to send me away." Because even this Washington hasn't promised him—that he will let Hamilton remain at his side—and Hamilton can't shake the fear from his bones.

"Even if it's the only way to remove temptation?" Washington's eyes are bright with honesty. "I've used you selfishly."

"No, you _haven't_ ," Hamilton snarls. He doesn't feel used. God, he's wanted this. He's wanted Washington more powerfully than any fleeting thought he's ever entertained of another man's hands on him, and he is suddenly terrified Washington will tell him they aren't doing this again.

"Alexander—"

"Do you want me to beg?" he asks in a wild, winded rush. "Is— Is that the only way to convince you I genuinely want this?" It isn't just want, though. He needs this. Needs to know he will return to Washington's bed tomorrow, and tomorrow again, for as long they have. For as long as they _can_ have each other.

"That's not—"

"Because I will." It will wound his pride, but Hamilton will do it without hesitation.

Washington's expression softens, and he touches Hamilton's face. Broad palm curling along his jaw, thumb brushing the smooth arch of his cheekbone.

"You do not need to beg." Washington's touch shifts, the pad of his thumb tracing Hamilton's lower lip. His voice, when he continues, is uncharacteristically soft. "I _should_ reassign you. I should vow never to touch you again. But we both know I'm not strong enough to keep my hands off you, and I cannot afford to send you away."

" _Sir_ ," Hamilton says, helpless and choked with feeling.

"I cannot bear to send you away," Washington amends, and then he is grabbing Hamilton by the hips, shoving, knocking him onto his back and settling over him. Heavy muscle, impossible heat, strong hands. Washington's face fills Hamilton's vision, more expressive than he has ever seen his general.

Hamilton expects to be kissed. Instead Washington stares at him for a long time. Long enough for Hamilton's restlessness to return.

"Sir?"

"I need a promise from you, Alexander."

_Anything_ , Hamilton almost says. But he bites his tongue, because what if Washington wants _him_ to be the strong one, to say no? Hamilton can't, and he certainly can't summon anything like self control with Washington crowding his space, Washington on top of him, between his thighs, all this naked skin and heat.

"Promise me, if you change your mind, you will tell me. You won't let anything we've done make you feel obligated to continue."

Hamilton's voice falters and vanishes, and he can't get enough air in his chest to answer, let alone make the promise Washington is asking of him. He can't imagine such a future. But there's no point protesting that he won't change his mind—not judging by the look of intent determination on Washington's face.

Hamilton draws a shaky breath and forces the words across his tongue. "I promise."

Washington's eyes close for just a moment, a fleeting instant of relief. Then he _is_ kissing Hamilton again, fierce and intimate.

Beside the bed, the candle burns out.


	11. Chapter 11

EPILOGUE

Eventually Laurens will wonder why he didn't see it sooner.

He doesn't know exactly what happened to the false general, and he honestly doesn't care. It's enough to know the imposter is gone for good. Laurens would've pulled the trigger himself, would eagerly have helped hide the body if anyone asked him. But no one did. No one required his help. In the aftermath, all he has are Lafayette's cryptic reassurances, and those will have to be enough.

Laurens tries to let the matter lie, but ultimately he corners Hamilton to demand, "Promise you won't try again."

"I don't need to promise." Hamilton speaks quietly enough that no one else will hear as they stride between tents. "I couldn't try again if I wanted to. Washington destroyed the ritual components."

Laurens blinks. "He did?" Hamilton gives him a strange look, as if to say _of course he did_ , and Laurens says, "That's good."

"Maybe." It's probably the closest Hamilton will come to agreeing with him, but that's fine. Laurens is simply relieved he doesn't have to worry about a second attempt. Fighting a war is taxing enough on its own merit; a best friend with no instinct for survival makes everything more fraught.

He just wishes he could be sure Alexander is actually okay. They haven't talked about what happened that night. Laurens doesn't know how to broach the subject, and his few clumsy efforts have been soundly rebuffed. Hamilton has never liked discussing his own troubles, especially ones so intensely personal.

A month passes. The army engages twice with the British—a maddening and costly stalemate each time—and then marches north, pitches tents around a hastily constructed fort. The nearest town, only a stone's throw away, is large enough to entertain those among the troops with any money to spend. Normally Hamilton would be among the most eager to join in. It's been a long and lonely dry spell marching between towns, and Alexander is a man of needs and wants. Once coaxed from his work and studies, Hamilton is always the first to charm his way into a willing woman's bed.

His successes have earned him a reputation among his fellows, who grumble and complain that Hamilton's pretty face gives him an unfair advantage. Laurens suspects it has more to do with Hamilton's stubborn and artless charm, though of course a handsome face doesn't hurt.

But after two weeks in their new camp, Hamilton has yet to join any of the men on their forays into town. He's turned down even John's invitations, pleading too much work. Urgent correspondence, or a new book he requested just arrived with the post, or a particularly difficult resource problem that requires his attention. All perfectly reasonable excuses, but the unrelenting deluge of them gets under John's skin and sticks there. Two weeks within walking distance of a town, and Hamilton hasn't once made the journey in search of more intimate company?

It's not that Hamilton has ever shirked his responsibilities to pursue other distractions. But this complete setting aside of his previous habits—the tomcat refusing to prowl—is disconcerting.

Laurens pointedly does not ask. But he watches, worried for his friend. And when he spots Hamilton wearing the unmistakable bruise of a fresh love bite just above the line of his cravat, he doesn't know _what_ to think. He doesn't say anything. Not that morning, and not a week later when it happens again—a mark higher on his throat—darker than the last. Laurens isn't the only one to notice. There's goodnatured heckling among the aides, as there always is when one of their number evinces a fresh conquest. If Hamilton is protective of the details, that's not unusual; he's always been guarded with his private affairs.

But John's gut insists Hamilton hasn't taken up with some local woman. He's too surreptitious about it.

Private or not, Alexander has few secrets from _him_. Hamilton has never guarded himself quite so closely from Laurens as he has the rest of his friends. When even John's questions go deflected or ignored, the avoidance is too deliberate to be meaningless. Hamilton must have a reason for discretion. There are no ladies of high enough station to cause a scandal, which leaves very few conclusions to be drawn from Hamilton's secrecy.

The truth is, Laurens is nearly as smart as Hamilton. And he is inexplicably certain Hamilton has taken a man for a lover. A fellow soldier, almost surely. Someone Alexander feels a need to protect, or else he would admit the truth to his best friend.

So Laurens watches more closely, even though he's not sure what he's looking for.

What he sees is almost nothing. A hand pressed to the small of Hamilton's back, lingering a moment too long. Nothing inappropriate in the gesture, and yet clarity breaks across John's mind like a jagged streak of lightning across a clouded sky.

General Washington is a man of reserved formalities. He softens for few among his staff—only the youngest, neediest, most terrified—and of course for the Marquis de Lafayette. Never for Alexander Hamilton. If anything Washington has always kept his chief of staff at an even greater remove than the rest of his aides.

Suddenly that excessive formality is gone. There's nothing inappropriate in the general's manner toward Hamilton, but to Laurens the change is immeasurable. A casualness in their postures when they occupy the same room, a new and inexplicable ease. The steady hand Washington sets so often on Hamilton's shoulder when Laurens can't ever remember seeing that happen before.

There are days he wonders if he's imagining things.

They aren't obvious. He never catches them in flagrante; neither Washington nor Hamilton would ever be that stupid. Whatever they're doing, they're careful. Discreet.

Laurens hopes he's the only one who sees it.

Part of him thinks he should leave well enough alone. Alexander may be his best friend, but it's clear he has no intention of sharing this secret. Laurens shouldn't push where he isn't welcome.

But another, stronger part of him knows better than to leave be. There are too many unknowns, and Hamilton is not good at protecting himself. Too ready to die for his country and his cause. Too quick to subjugate his own wellbeing for the needs of the army.

And for the needs of his general.

He doesn't want to think Hamilton would share Washington's bed out of some misplaced sense of duty. Even less does he want to think Washington would demand or allow such a thing. Surely the man wouldn't pressure a member of his staff into unwanted intimacies. But Laurens _doesn't know_. He can't take the chance. No matter how much respect he has for the general, he won't risk standing by while the commander in chief of the continental army takes advantage of John's best friend.

He needs to know Alexander is okay.

"Walk with me," he says when the itch of worry beneath his skin grows too urgent to ignore.

Hamilton blinks up from where he sits with his work, portable writing desk in his lap and ink pot sitting on the ground beside him, dangerously close to the white fabric of his breeches. The quill in his hand pauses its scratching, and his brow furrows as he looks up into John's determined face.

They're outdoors. Most of this camp is out of doors—more canvas tents than buildings—and whatever has Hamilton engrossed probably isn't army business.

"Where?" Hamilton asks without setting down his quill. "Why?"

"Doesn't matter where." There's a wide stream east of camp. Flat ground and few trees. As good a place as any for a private conversation where no one can sneak up on them, but Laurens doubts his friend will accompany him if he knows the reason for the invitation.

Either intrigued or simply humoring him, Hamilton caps his ink bottle and fusses with the writing desk in his lap, tucking his things away in the various drawers and securing it shut. Laurens follows to the empty tent where Hamilton's little-used bedroll sits amid those of their fellow aides, and waits for his friend to deposit his cargo. Then, steering their course while trying to seem like he's doing no such thing, Laurens leads the way out of camp.

It's a pleasant enough day. Uncomfortably warm but not stifling. There are soldiers bathing down the river, but otherwise there's no sign of anyone on this side of the tents. Several regiments are preparing for their drills in the fields to the south. The day is early enough that most anyone who doesn't _have_ to be awake is still stubbornly asleep.

Unaccustomed quiet lingers between Hamilton and Laurens while they walk. Normally Hamilton would fill every available space with chatter, putting words to the boundless energy that drives him. But he doesn't speak. It's not that the energy is gone—Laurens can all but _see_ him vibrating with the familiar chaos of thoughts in his head—but for once Hamilton seems to have turned all that inwards. Maybe he suspects what Laurens intends. Maybe he's bracing himself for what's apt to be a discomfiting conversation.

When they reach the river, Laurens sits and waits for Hamilton to settle on the sloping riverbank beside him. Then he draws a hip flask from the pocket of his uniform. The metal of the flask is dinged and dented, the leather case warn nearly through. The liquor inside is of even worse quality.

But Laurens unscrews the cap and takes a sip anyway before offering Hamilton a drink.

Hamilton glances at the offering, and then at John's face, before accepting the handoff and taking a long sip of the vile stuff.

"You planning to tell me what's wrong?" Hamilton asks when he hands the flask back.

Laurens takes another sip, giving the alcohol a moment to burn its way down his throat. He twists the cap back on. Turns and locks Hamilton with a steady look. He's been bracing for this since he woke this morning. It's still remarkably difficult to say the words, and in the end they come out nothing like he intended.

"You planning to tell _me_ whose bed you've been warming?"

Hamilton's skin visibly blanches, but he doesn't flinch or look away. "I don't see how that's your business."

Laurens silently curses his clumsy approach. He eases his tone into something more intimate and teasing. "Come on, Alex. You know I can keep a secret."

Hamilton breaks his gaze away and turns to stare straight across the river. His shoulders are tense. His profile is as stiff and guarded as Laurens has ever seen, not at all a reassuring look. It's no surprise, really, when Hamilton stays perfectly quiet instead of answering.

This isn't working. Laurens needs to take a different tack. "I've seen the way he looks at you." Hamilton's pallor goes even more pale, but Laurens continues, "He never used to touch you before."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Hamilton says without conviction.

"You're my closest friend." Laurens mirrors Hamilton's posture, props his elbows on his knees, stares at the far river bank. "I'm just worried. If you and the general are on intimate terms… I need to know it's what you want."

Quick as that he can feel Hamilton staring at him—glaring at him—and there's iron in Hamilton's voice when he says, "What the _fuck_ are you implying?"

Laurens doesn't answer. He glances at Hamilton just long enough for his friend to flinch and look away again. The worst of the tension eases grudgingly from those narrow shoulders.

"Washington's a good man," Hamilton says with more ferocity than Laurens expects. "He _wouldn't_ — Christ, he would _never_ force someone unwilling into his bed."

Laurens doesn't point out that there are plenty of coercions short of force that would still be unforgivable. Something tells him Hamilton isn't in the frame of mind to appreciate such nuances. He certainly doesn't possess the air of a man willing to discuss them. Hell, technically he still hasn't even admitted to taking up with Washington in the first place.

"But you _are_ sharing his bed," John presses, watching Hamilton's profile for the faintest tell. There. The tic in his cheek, the momentary tightening of his jaw. "Alexander, please. I don't _care_ who you fuck, I just gotta know it's what you really want. I'm trying to have your back."

He probably should care, but hell, he's not that much of a hypocrite.

The moment stretches taut until it's almost painful, but finally Hamilton exhales a slow, exhausted breath. His shoulders slump and his eyes close. He catches his lower lip between his teeth for a moment before straightening his posture and opening his eyes once more.

"I'm exactly where I want to be," Hamilton says with such fierce sincerity that John's doubts vanish in an instant.

"And Washington?"

"Hasn't pressured me into anything. It's not like that." Hamilton's face, back to its healthy color, flushes with visible warmth as he stares down at the river. "You wouldn't believe how many arguments he tried to raise, to convince me we shouldn't."

"Try me."

Hamilton shakes his head. "No. It doesn't matter. If I were a better person maybe I would've listened. But there's no point wondering about it now."

"Alexander…"

"He offered to reassign me."

John's eyes widen at that. It's an offer he can't imagine Washington making. Everyone in this camp knows how heavily the general relies on his chief of staff—how complete his faith in Hamilton. Washington gives Hamilton tasks that he trusts to no one else. The idea that he might willingly give up such a vital resource when their army's position is still so precarious… Laurens can't credit it.

"Bullshit."

But there's only honesty in Hamilton's voice. "It's not bullshit. He wanted to send me away for both our sakes after…" Hamilton trails off, embarrassed and uncomfortable, but Laurens follows his meaning. After the imposter attacked him. After the real general saw. Hamilton swallows and shrugs his shoulders as though dismissing the events of that night, or at least tucking them securely away. "He thought he could protect me. That I wouldn't want to be near him anymore."

Obviously the general's reasoning didn't carry the day. Hamilton is still here. And he is nearer the general than ever. Laurens can't pretend the idea doesn't make him uneasy.

He keeps his voice as careful and neutral as he can when he says, "You know this is dangerous. If anyone found out—"

"No one will find out," Hamilton interrupts with startling vehemence.

Laurens waits only a heartbeat. "I did."

Hamilton turns his head to glower at him. "Then we'll be more careful."

Laurens bites back half a dozen ill-considered retorts—even he isn't above being baited by his friend's more confrontational tones—and he says simply, "I don't want to see you hurt." _Or ruined_ , a terrified voice chimes at the back of his mind. There are so many ways this could all go wrong and destroy Hamilton's prospects. Alexander has worked so hard to get here; he doesn't deserve the humiliation and disgrace if this affair should become public knowledge.

They walk back to camp in a different sort of quiet. Pensive, heavy, uncomfortable. But Hamilton doesn't seem angry. Hopefully they can put this conversation far behind them. Now that Laurens has his reassurances, he doesn't need to push. He can go back to quietly watching, worrying about his friend without trying to mind his business for him.

He's surprised—though maybe he shouldn't be—when it's Hamilton who breaks the silence.

"Are we okay?"

Laurens halts sharply, waits until Hamilton stops beside him and looks him in the eye.

"Of course we are." Then he drags his friend—his _best friend_ —to his chest in a tight hug. Hamilton is quick to return the gesture, breathing a relieved sound against John's shoulder.

"Good," Hamilton says, the word muffled in John's jacket.

Laurens lets go and steps back—offers his most reassuring smile—and resumes the path toward camp.


End file.
